Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Don’t Get Burned by Niagara Falls

Our road trip took the three of us from Pittsburgh to Niagara Falls in late October, stopping overnight in each direction at Lake Chautauqua. About 50 miles from Niagara, a service station advertised that it provided tourist information for Niagara Falls – and that it was the last stop before Buffalo, NY. Of course we stopped.

As Jaya, Sandy, and I came in the door, the booth was set up so that everyone had to pass it. It featured piles of maps and brochures and leaflets and a jolly guy who was happy to talk to us about Niagara. All three of us love to chatter with strangers and this friendly chap was our match. Eventually he asked about our plans for the Falls and confided that he could secure us tickets for the best tour ever. It would include all parking fees at the various sites, all entrance fees, and a ride to four of the best views – altogether eight attractions. We would have a chance to spend a half hour at each stop, photographing and incredible views. It would take four hours and only cost $108 each.

“What about a senior discount?”

“Included it already,” he smiled.

“We’ll talk to you after we use the bathroom,” I said and off we went. I reminded my friends that there was no way I was going to stand around on my dysfunctional feet for half-hours at a time – and certainly not on such an extremely windy and chilly day. “Sounds like torture, not fun.” So we didn’t grab this bargain.

We got to the Falls and parked for $10. We never had to move the car. We went up to the main observation point and got our first free views of the Falls. Then we went on the exhilarating, amazing “Maid of the Mist” boat ride around the foot of the falls, dressed like everyone else in the pink plastic rain capes (with breast cancer ribbon designs on the back). We had befriended a guy at the info desk and he had given us big plastic bags and rubber bands for our shoes – we were the only ones on the Maid whose feet stayed dry. The wind was insane – so the mist was seriously whipping people around. And that was kinda wonderful. It cost us $20 each.

Afterwards we went on the Trolley (jump on / jump off) provided by the Niagara Falls State Park. It goes to all those eight attractions mentioned by the tour guy who had tried to sell us the tour. But it turned out that several of the attractions were already closed for the season and others were inaccessible due to road works. But the Trolley and its informative driver were fabulous – we got out at the premiere spot for viewing and photographing and then got back on later. The tickets cost $3 each.

So that’s $10 for parking, $60 for three tickets to the boat, $9 for three tickets to the Trolley. In total $79, and it was a full and exhausting day. If we had gone on the painful standing-around tour, it would’ve cost us $324.

How infuriating that this for-profit tour company passes itself off as a “tourist info” spot, even advertising on the highway and being placed immediately as one comes in the door of the last service stop. My feeling was that Niagara Falls is a State Park and therefore looked after us in an affordable and safe way. Don’t get burned – just get to the Park itself, preferably not, as staff told us, on the windiest day of the year.

 

He’s Just 4

It was a beautiful Fall day, so my friend and I got library passes to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, MA, where we intended to explore the new extension.

But something was very amiss in the clogged roads and WAZE was struggling to find us a way to keep moving, as is its wont. The closer we got to Salem, the more gridlocked it became. Cars were searching out non-existent parking spaces, and every spare space – from official lots to peoples’ driveways – displayed hand-made signs with a $20 or $30 price – or more commonly a big sign saying FULL.

The streets were impassable with excited crowds. The town was bulging with pumpkins and alive with excitement. Tourist Trolleys promised tours of witches’ sites and costumed guides were squiring families to all the haunted houses. I did not know, because I am not a Halloween kinda girl, that every October weekend in Salem is a massive big deal, not the least the first weekend. There was no approaching the Museum and so we concocted a plan B.

We set off south down the Essex Coastal Scenic Byway along the coast. The weather was glorious, absolutely perfect. We went to several beaches, noting the offensive “Private Beach: Do Not Trespass” signs in the wealthier seaside towns. We discovered the Audubon nature preserve at Marblehead Neck, which was gorgeous. As we drove through Marblehead, we detoured down a narrow road between two bloated mansions, to catch the view of the scenic harbor where the boats were as abundant as the ghost hunters had been in Salem.

Before we got to the end of this little road which was about ½ block long to see the harbor, out popped a little blond boy from behind a mansion vanity wall. He was gesticulating and waving us away, a big scowl on his little pale face.

I stuck my head out of the window. “Are you trying to tell us to get out of here?”

“Yes,” he yelled, all puffed up and full of himself, “This is my grandmother’s house.” He continued to point down the road and shoo us, petulance and privilege swelling his features.

From behind the wall, a woman said to him, “It’s okay.” But he stood his ground.

I said to him, “When you get a chance, look up the word ‘entitled’ in the dictionary.”

And the disembodied voice of the woman responded, “He’s only four!”

My friend said to me, “And she has taught him already.”

I found it spookier than Salem could ever be.

Raise Hell: The Life & Times Of Molly Ivins - A Review in 100 words

Raise Hell: The Life & Times Of Molly Ivins

A Review in 100 words

Now here’s a documentary to see, indeed. Molly Ivins started her life of raising hell by resisting her rich authoritarian father. ‘I remember my dad and his friends sitting around fixing the price of oil.’ Later she said, “My teenage rebellion lasted 35 years.” Six feet tall and a devoted intellectual, her young years reading in her bedroom well prepared her to be a rebellious journalist who splintered glass ceilings and spoke truth to power. Her hilarious wit – unfortunately fueled by heavy drinking – and the confidence privileged kids inherit, combined to make her a sterling, popular syndicated journalist and author.

 

Is This Karma or Clutter?

After my mother – a mean-spirited woman – died, my friend went through the jewelry she had accumulated throughout her life. Much was tacky mid-century plastic and gaudy Florida flea market stuff, but my friend did identify a few items with a bit of value: a gold chain, gold bracelets, a necklace with a diamond, some diamond earrings.

It was 2009, deep in the Recession, and selling/buying gold was big business. I contacted a gold-buying guy who had a big ad in a brochure featuring varied
Cape Cod businesses. He turned up with a tray, a special light, and one of those lenses (known as a monocular loupe) that screws into one eye and apparently lets jewelry experts see deep into the item. I was one of a bunch of such buying stops he was making that evening. It was his profession over many decades, but business had really picked up because of the Recession, he said with glee. If I recall, he gave me $250 cash for the lot and left. Two days later he called to say that he had screwed up on the assessment of one of the pieces and wanted to return to my house to take back $100. I said no.

After his call, I realized that I did not recollect what I did with the cash. I scoured my apartment but never found it. This loss has stayed in the back of my brain. My mother had treated me like crap all my life. Luckily I’m not superstitious or spiritual – or I might think she was messing with me from her grave.

Fast forward over a decade and I’m in the midst of a de-cluttering blitz. Among some very dusty papers, I found that Cape Cod business brochure. Inside was $350 cash. So it was more than I remembered and it was right where I had laid it over 10 years earlier. Now I have enough money to pay the woman I’ve hired to help me organize this attempt to tame the chaos of my tiny crowded apartment.

A Two-Stop Day-Trip from Boston: Wachusett Dam & Reservoir plus Tower Hill Botanic Garden

With so little to celebrate in this world, a warm Spring day is sufficient motivation to turn off the news, leave the computer, put down the protest banner, and go see the explosion of greens, as the flora awakens around us.

We head to Clinton, Massachusetts (less than an hour from Boston) for the Wachusett Dam, constructed between 1897 to 1905, and still the largest stone dam built by hand. It creates the magnificent Wachusett Reservoir, which supplies part of Boston’s needs. At nearly 7 square miles, it is the second largest body of water in Massachusetts. For those willing to descend a gazillion steps, one can tour the very base of the dam where the landscaping includes a handsome water fountain. But I found it plenty gorgeous from atop the dam as well.

From there it was a quick 5-mile drive to the Tower Hill Botanic Garden. Our state park pass got us in without paying the $11 senior entrance fee. Founded in 1986, the gorgeous visitor center is surrounded on all sides by assorted gardens, all of which thrive in New England’s variable weather – the Garden is only closed in January. Among the one dozen gardens are the Systematic Garden, Winter Garden, Cottage Garden, and Vegetable Garden. On this visit, the plethora of tulips – white and ruby – were a highlight of our visit.We were lucky to visit during the enthralling, mesmerizing exhibition of large stainless steel wind sculptures scattered throughout. Titled “Wind, Waves & Light: Art in Motion,” they are the work of George Sherwood, an engineer/artist who lives in Ipswich, Massachusetts. A 40-second video clip of the work is below.

The Tower Hill Botanic Garden center has a cool garden shop, a café (already closed when we arrived), impressive event rooms (where, for example, UMass Medical School holds its graduation), a library, and clean bathrooms. Tours are offered. Best of all, there are benches all over the place for relaxing amidst the different plants.

One of the charms of this one-day trip is that it can be as accessible, physically non-challenging as you want, while people with kids and energy can run up and down the steps of the Dam and to the furthest reaches of the 171 acres of Tower Hill. 

 

An Interview with author Stephanie Schroeder, co-editor of Headcase: LGBTQ Writers & Artists on Mental Health and Wellness

Stephanie Schroeder – writer and peer advocate – and her co-editor Teresa Theophano – writer and social worker – have brought together 38 important pieces of writing on the topic of LGBTQ mental health today in their anthology Headcase: LGBTQ Writers & Artists on Mental Health and Wellness. Stephanie is known for her hard-hitting socially-aware journalism and one other book, her moving memoir.

The enthusiastic reception of Headcase is reflected in its reviews where comments call it “ground-breaking,” “poignant,” “terrific and essential,” and “a diverse democracy of voices.” I spoke to Stephanie Schroeder about the process of putting together such a pioneering work.

 

Question: How did you and your co-editor meet and decide to work together on this project?

Stephanie Schroeder: When Teresa read my memoir Beautiful Wreck: Sex, Lies & Suicide, it resonated with her. She had originated the idea of Headcase and then reached out to me. We hadn’t met before. We’ve been working on Headcase since 2014 and it has been a dream collaboration. We agreed on everything, from the vision to the submission guidelines to the final choices out of hundreds of submissions.

 

Question: Now that the book is out and you have just finished a national book tour, are you still friends?

Stephanie Schroeder (on left in black shirt): Yes! Not only have we stayed friends, we also plan to co-write another book focusing on LGBTQ suicide.

 

Question: How did you decide what to include in Headcase?

Stephanie Schroeder: We chose selections on the strength of their writing and content. We ensured a broad demographic around age, race & ethnicity, sexual orientation & gender identity, socio-economic status, geography, and diverse viewpoints. Some are grounded in an anti-psychiatry position while others are from a more conventional treatment viewpoint. We included essays, poetry, fiction, visual artwork, and a 13-panel comic written by a young transperson who documented their days in the hospital for mental health issues.

 

Question: Why is this anthology necessary?

Stephanie Schroeder: Because LGBTQ peers and consumers of mental health services are under-represented in the literature. Most books are written by professionals for professionals or clinicians for clinicians. We believe that LGBTQ peers are experts about our own care. And in fact nothing like this book has ever existed before. It is truly a vanguard work in the field of mental health literature.

 

To learn more, check out the Headcase anthology online and on Facebook:

www.headcaseanthology.com

Facebook: Headcaseanthology

"Alleged Lesbian Activities" - a review

The New Orleans-based ensemble Last Call brought Alleged Lesbian Activities to Boston thanks to our incomparable The Theatre Offensive. This production asks: What happened to all the lesbian bars? And examines what our lives were like back when the underground bars – sleazy, criminal, and too often raided – were the only venues where we could gather.

Alleged Lesbian Activities drew sell-out crowds for five performances at Jacques Cabaret, a dive bar in what used to be known as Boston’s Combat Zone when it was surrounded by other queer bars, topless joints, and the sex trade in the ‘50s and ‘60s. I remember it well because I ‘grew up’ as a baby dyke in Jacques from the late ‘60s. At age 22, I met one of the great loves of my life in that bar, after secretly slipping her a copy of Lavender Vision, one of the first gay liberation publications of the new movement, put out by my collective. I haven’t been back there since the 1970s.

For the show, the place is renamed as Franki’s. We are introduced to a cast of seven lesbians – from the bartender for whom the bar is named (played brilliantly by co-director/creator indee mitchell) to the brash cabaret MC Privacy (played by Hannah Pepper-Cunningham who dramatically greeted audience members as we found our seats) to the predatory teacher Karen who brings her young students to the bar (played lustfully by Rebecca Elizabeth Hollingsworth) to the suave keyboard musician Slim (played by the talented Kei Slaughter.) Together they all try to navigate the reality of being squeezed into this one oasis. As there are no other options in town, they must sort out their issues around race, class, butch and femme. The economic realities of running a lesbian bar (while paying off the cops) is underpinned by the cluelessness of some of the white women, the threat of a raid at any moment, and the complicated inter-personals.

With talent galore, the members of Last Call sing, act, and invite in the recorded voices of old New Orleans dykes who talk about life in those bars. “The bars saved me. The clubs let you be who you were, not like the outside,” says one. “The bar was my safe haven,” says another. Says one black lesbian about the bar she frequented, “I never went there by myself: it just wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t want to be the only one.” Says another, “It not just about keeping the bar open: it’s about keeping it black.”

Last Call clearly listened to the women they interviewed, as they seamlessly touch on confusions about butch/femme identity in the days when it was illegal not to wear three pieces of “appropriate” gendered clothing; as they talk about exclusions from churches and the need to find a substitute community in the bars; and as Franki tries to impress on her patrons the proper codes of conduct when cruising in the bar.

I was amazed to read on the inside cover of the program the story of the first Gay Pride March in Boston in June of 1971 (lesbian liberation marched in Boston the year before), including the list of demands to Jacques that my friends and I constructed back then. These included a women-only space upstairs, unlocked fire escapes, and cleaner bathrooms (for after all, we made the acquaintance of many of our girlfriends in the line to the toilets).

Kudos to The Theatre Offensive for bringing us Last Call’s Alleged Lesbian Activities – for me it was an unexpected stroll down memory lane and for the friend I went with who is in her 20s, it was a peek into the life of generations past.

Mueller: A Successful Distraction

How did the Repuglicans most benefit from the Muller Report? The whole country sat and waited – dazzled by the promise that we’d be saved by this one “righteous, principled” white man, the former head of the FBI, for fuck’s sake. Mueller choked - but his whole remit was so narrowly focused on the Russian bit that tRump has been allowed these two years to destroy everything else. Meanwhile the country, including the Resistance, awaited the report about this sliver of the big picture. I said this many times over the last two years: Mueller was a successful diversion and pacifier.

London just had between 1 and 2 million protesters on the street in a country of 56 million (England). We, in contrast, have been awaiting a solution from the former director of the FBI, a body with the shadiest of pedigrees. Of course there have been many groups that have kept up their protests and expressed their outrage on the streets and through words, but too many have sat back awaiting the report of this savior who has spent his life supporting the Repuglican law & order agenda.

There are no saviors. Only we can do it for ourselves. For context, watch Stephen Colbert’s monologue from last night.

 

 

Confessions of a Young@Heart Groupie

Confession time. I am a groupie. I cannot resist a Young@Heart performance, even when it generally means driving 2+ hours to Northampton or, as was the case Tuesday night, all the way to Providence, RI, where they had been invited to the previously (to me) unknown Rhode Island College by the College's choir leader.

They gave a huge show, with two full halves, and the College Choir joining in for their signature song, Forever Young. To my mind, the College choir leader was trying to show them how a chorus can create an entire show full of costume changes, brilliant solos, strong group bonds, terrific staging, amazing conducting, all with a live band.

But during the intermission, in the line in the women’s bathroom (so much of my life has passed in such lines), I was behind one of the college girls who was about to perform with Young@Heart. I asked her what she thought of the show so far and she squealed, “They’re so cute!” We’re talking here about people in their 70s and 80s and 90s, many of whom have been singing for half a century or more. Cute? Then someone asked her if she’d be on stage with them and she answered with a giggle, “Yes, of course. And they’re such a sweet little bunch.”

I’m afraid her condescension, her stark ageism, and her inability to recognize talent and professionalism right before her eyes kinda dulled the second half for me. Young@Heart works their asses off to maintain the standards they have established in their 37 years of performing. They travel abroad. The 10-year-old documentary made of them is one of the 50 top docus of all time. They do new material constantly. What more does that little fool want?

Anyway, I’ve seen Young@Heart at least dozen times and I will continue to be a devoted fan. I started out as a journalist reviewing them. Once. Twice. Thrice. And then I had to admit it. I hunger for my twice yearly dose of their talent and their community. I’m a groupie.

Here's one of my favorite clips:

 

 

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.