Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

The Fascinators and the Rip-Off

As I watch the Queen’s funeral in the background and the women in their particular head-gear, I am reminded of my neighbor in the Holloway neighborhood of London. I was quite new in town and needed to escape a nasty living situation. I was offered a sublet in a converted church on Chillingworth Street. The former church had been painted black in contrast to its white columns, and two stories of flats were built on its top. The main church area was divided into artist studios. My apartment was two rooms on two stories – one up and one down. I lived there alone, except for large chunks of one year when I shared it with my chosen niece Oona who came over as she turned 21 from Vermont.

Down the hall was a brilliant Black gay milliner who designed fascinators and hats, one-of-a-kind confections that were worn by women at formal events, most famously the Royal Ascot, a British racecourse which has high-falutin’ events. My neighbor was a freelancer, struggling for customers, and all the time turning out magnificent hats to order. For a visual of this genre, I have featured some examples of such items that Meghan Markel has worn since her marriage, as she frames them so well.

Before I found this apartment, I had lived on my arrival to London for several months in a moldy, smelly bedsit – that is, a poor person’s version of a studio apartment, a bed, a dresser, and a hot plate. The bathroom was down the hall. It was in the Hackney home of a “friend” and her dreadful partner, a coarse man who persisted in opening the bathroom door whenever I was sitting on the toilet. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly. They refused to put a lock on the door, her the pathetic enabler and him the sleaze-ball.

So when someone introduced me to the Canadian woman who wanted to sublet her flat in the Holloway converted church while she returned to Canada, I was hugely relieved. I lived there for a couple of years until my milliner neighbor, who had become my friend, warned me that an inspection was coming. Inspection? Yes, all this time I had been staying in a Housing Association apartment, low-income housing that my “landlady” had managed to qualify for despite her actually being a professional of some wealth. Of course I have seen parasites who have the resources to get themselves benefits intended for people without resources. Governmental institutions often make the process of obtaining these benefits so laborious and convoluted that it is the folks who hire lawyers and experts who score them. Ask any American who has applied for disability benefits.

And to top it all off, my “landlady” was charging me market rent, about twice what she herself was paying to the Housing Association, not only ripping them off, but ripping me off in the process. And now, back to the ornate, dour, and regimented spectacle of the Queen’s funeral, as the procession heads from London to Windsor Castle, where I was once, by the way, a keynote speaker at a European Union conference on volunteerism.

90 word book review: “Olga Dies Dreaming” by Xochitl Gonzalez

Loved it. Olga’s absent revolutionary mother looms over her life and that of her brother Prieto. Born and raised in New York, they have disappointed their mother, an underground Puerto Rican independence activist, by becoming successful. Olga is a wedding planner and Prieto is a politician who is blackmailed by greedy criminals. There’s a gay theme, a struggle against gentrification, deep family secrets, a dollop of organized crime, and plenty of romance. Gonzalez’s debut novel is a page turner that has strong content packaged in a swift and engaging read.

Nasty-Assed Ads

“Law & Order” is often my white noise when I’m doing the dishes or eating a meal. Apparently the re-runs assume an audience of my age peers, because the ads are usually for memory boosters or arthritis dampers.

Today a commercial break begins with a grimacing man naked under his robe, his foot up on the bathroom sink, and his arm reaching back into his crotch. Suddenly, a woman’s voice and person pops up saying, “Guys, we need to talk about your hairy balls.” This very phenomenon ("trimming balls") is news to me, although I admit my balls expertise is limited. The word, repeated multiple times, is jarring to hear on TV. But who is demanding bald balls?

Got one minute to learn about ball shaving?

As if that weren’t sufficiently surreal, another crotch-focused ad followed immediately. This one for pussy deodorant. Companies have been trying for decades to turn women’s crotches into swampy, smelly cesspools, and according to a completely random survey of my besties, they have never succeeded. But if they can afford an ad on “Law & Order,” they must be moving a lot of this misogynist product.

Wanna see their nasty-assed ad?

The anti-sex, body-shaming message of both these ads is that however you exist naturally, it simply ain’t good enough. More than that, your body is disgusting. Trim this, stifle that – otherwise your life will suck.

In fact, I find these ads so offensive that I’m hoping to once again hear about cancer meds, the meaning of “a1c” levels, and life insurance for $9.99 a month.

PS: A friend thought these must be Saturday Night Live skits. But no, I did really really see these ads during an afternoon “Law & Order.”

Review in 90 words: HALLELUJAH: Leonard Cohen, A Journey, A Song

I was disappointed to realize that Leonard Cohen isn’t the star of this film.

His song Hallelujah is the subject. We hear from a long string of musicians who more or less made their careers covering this song. We learn little new about Cohen himself, a conflicted, complicated artist. Instead, it’s all about the song’s journey as so many others reconfigured Hallelujah to suit their own needs. The ending was quite moving, when Cohen returns, broke, to the stage. And we get to hear KD Lang’s brilliant rendition of Hallelujah.

Here's the trailer:

 

Discovering Camp Life

I'm staying on a lake in mid-Maine with sweet friends. It is another world for me – but a staple of New England culture. I am a stranger in a strange land, but I put aside the irony of celebrating “independence day” in a country built on the theft by white men of everyone else’s independence. As white men shoot up the world, steal our bodies and our wealth, and face little effective opposition to their increasing fascistic success, I am learning of a part of American culture that is rather new to me.

Yesterday morning we were part of a festive July 4th parade of residents' boats - pontoons (especially ours full of varied queers waving rainbow flags, wearing sequins, and blaring Whitney Houston), row boats full of kids being pulled by parents on a jet ski, speed boats, a big boat captained by a loud Santa Claus, and two dozen more lake-worthy vehicles.

In the afternoon, we were invited to a BBQ with our pontoon posse, at their “camp.” A camp is a lakeside cottage suitable for summer holidays. Many of these were built by grandparents or great-grandparents, originally without electricity or plumbing. Usually they were located fairly close to the family home. Subsequent generations added power, dug a well, or built on a bathroom. Many are remodeled with great charm, while only a few have been sold to people who turned them into McMansions. These camps are not connected to a water or sewage grid, so the water in the sink and shower is directly from the lake and people who don’t have a well, bring in their drinking water.

Between one’s camp and the water, everyone has a dock with a boat or three, a deck with lots of chairs, and a fire pit. The homes have a sun porch with screens and maybe windows, often just yards from the water. My friends also have a hammock and a little motorboat from the 50s that is a wonderful ride, as long as the wind isn’t churning up the lake. Late spring and dusk and nighttime are plagued with mosquitoes, but that’s what the sun porches are for – escaping these ravenous creatures.

With the addition of Wifi around the lake, families were reunited during Covid, as it was the perfect spot to build a small, safe community, and live a life – at least during the warm half of year. Most camps have no heat beyond a wood stove and the unpaved road is not plowed. But when the camps were opened, adult children returned and life went on.

On the evening of July 4th, individuals around the lake set off fireworks, which Maine has apparently legalized after a history of neighboring New Hampshire dominating the market. It was hard to stay awake for the sky to darken, after such an eventful day, but soon impressive fireworks began in three different private spots around the lake. I insisted we go outside to the water to watch them, but after a couple of snapshots I faced the reality that the mosquitos owned the nighttime outdoors, reducing me to the status of their dinner. I retreated with the hope that I am more easily persuaded to surrender to mosquitos than I am to fascists.

 

"The Orphans Club"

My short story THE ORPHANS CLUB is published today in "A Plate of Pandemic: creativity in a time of crisis." You can read it here.
https://plateofpandemic.com/the-orphans-club/

 

 

Forgot to tell you about the Queer Cabaret tonight/tomorrow!

Oops, I completely forgot to blog about my inclusion in a stunningly talented line-up for the Queer Cabarets, produced by Peter DiMuro. What a great way to celebrate Pride and of course everyone is welcome.

This will be a fabulous Queer Cabaret - singing, dancing, drag queens, comedians - and me (!). I perform on Friday June 17 and Saturday June 18 (6:00 and again 8:30 both nights). It's not too late for you to get tickets for the Central Square Theater.

The shows will feature  area and national LGBTQ+ community members, ages 20’s to 70’s and from all points on the LGBTQ+ spectrum. Expect wonderful performances - can we say high-heeled pole-dancing meets Cole Porter? - along with the funny and often poignant reflections on gay to queer lives over the span of 100 years.

Here’s the direct link for getting tickets:

https://ci.ovationtix.com/2462/production/1126320

 

 

 

 

 

Pedro Almodóvar’s “Parallel Mothers”- Review

Yesterday I went to a matinee in a movie house for the first time in well over two years. Luckily, there were only three other people inside the theatre, which required masking. I went to see Pedro Almodóvar’s riveting “Parallel Mothers” starring the radiant Penélope Cruz.

As always, Almodóvar shows a deep understanding of women’s lives and loves. Janis (Cruz) and teenager Ana (Milena Smit) meet across generations and across the room in a maternity hospital. Their labor and birthings happen at the same time and the bond they mold is both enduring and multi-faceted.

Israel Elejalde, as Arturo, is satisfyingly handsome and sincere as Janis’ lover, and Aitana Sánchez-Gijón, as Ana’s mother Teresa, rings true as a conflicted parent who wants only to explore her acting career.

I have long been a fan of Almodóvar – whose queer sensibility is underpinned by more than a dollop of intelligence and a bountiful serving of empathy. His films are never boring.

This film’s framework is the search for truth about the Franco rule of fascism. Spain is a country which is fast forgetting its own history – so recent that I myself remember visiting Spain during the Franco regime. Franco only died in 1975, but already the younger generations are being deprived of their own past by a national denial.

Sorrows, secrets, sexualities, and passion mark “Parallel Mothers” – as they do all Almodóvar films. What better way to break yet another Covid barrier – in-person film viewing – than to see the work of this beloved director.

 

Here is the trailer:

Last night I dreamed that I was dancing with Bruno Mars

Last night I dreamed that I was dancing with Bruno Mars. For real. I was at a live performance and he plucked me out of the crowd. The problem was that I can’t follow and so I immediately forced a switch. Bruno understood and surrendered the lead to me. The backup dancers dug it and joined the party. I felt the beat deep in my inner organs. Don’t care what others say about him, there I was dancing with the movement heir of Michael Jackson. For me, Bruno Mars can nod his head and I feel like I’m watching a genius (as he does in Lazy Song). Luckily, I was dancing with the pre-mustache pretty Bruno.

I woke up a happy woman. Until I remembered that I haven’t hardly danced a step for two years. Covid has reduced me to a dreamer: I want to return to being a doer.

Here's a video with a selection of clips of Bruno Mars dancing. Not the smoothest compilation, but gives good tidbit.

 

David Brooks Wins the Mediocre White Man Weekly Prize

There are so many nasty things I could legitimately say about David Brooks, a NYT “opinion” writer and TV pontificator who has used his status as a quintessential mediocre white man to annoy me every Friday night when he is asked to comment on the week’s news on NewsHour, our public broadcasting show. Brooks has honed his qualities to a dull blandness. He is banal. He is conservative. He states things others have been saying for years as if he has just invented the color beige. He asserts his backwards views without bothering with facts and figures.

This year he has been declaring in his arrogant and errant way, week in and week out, that voting restrictions are not a particular problem as anyone in the US who wants to vote can vote. Is he just dumb or simply the slimebag he appears to be? One critic wonders if he is “deliberately deceptive or recklessly ignorant.” Brooks’ politics suck: he opposes the legalization of marijuana, considers The Squad loonies, and deems the Right “wholesome.”

Of the many profiles on Wikipedia that I’ve seen over the years, Brooks’ is the first in which the classic sections – Political Views and Social Views – are followed by a big fat section of Criticisms!

I thought I couldn’t find him more distasteful than I always have until last week when he Zoomed into NewsHour with his bookcases behind him. Although it's hard to underestimate this fool, I was shocked. He has organized them by color! Nuff said.