Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Welcome to My Heart, Mind and Fist

Are you, too, a Consenting Adult? Do you welcome frank talk, critical views and a belly laugh now and again? Welcome to my blog. I'm a long-time journalist, activist, ballroom dancer, lover and not so long ago I single-handedly brought down the McCain/Palin ticket through my book Thanks But No Thanks: The Voter's Guide to Sarah Palin.

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

Dance Our Way Into the New Year/Decade

It has been such an appalling decade for the USA and more trouble is brewing - further unemployment for us and bailout for financial bodies, the erosion of women's rights and health, war on the beautiful country of Yemen.

As I'm not in a position to offer you health or wealth, the most I can wish for you are epiphanies of the political organizing, sexual or artistic sorts. I personally achingly miss the incredible dance epiphanies I had while living in Europe in the 90s thanks to my partners - Brian, Mary, Mike, Wonnita, Nicola and others, and my teachers Ralf, Heather, Glenn and Wonnita.

I offer you a bit of eye candy to bring in the New Year. Here are two brothers dramatizing their tango in the very spot where this country most identifies the turning of the New Year: NYC's Times Square.

We Need some Demolition, Las Vegas Style

I found this video clip on DamnCoolPics and immediately felt that this is what I'd love to do to the whole retiring decade. Take it down, erase it, eliminate it, finish it off - but do it in such a way that we'll finally get some enjoyment out of it. A farewell with fireworks.

Film Review: Broken Embraces (Pedro Almodovar plus Penelope Cruz)

Despite the forgettable title – “Broken Embraces” – Pedro Almodovar’s latest film is anything but forgettable, and not only because of the intimate shots of Penelope Cruz in a passionate clutch. Take a dollop of romance, a forkful of abuse, some noir thriller, magnificent acting by all the principles and add Almodovar. Then give him a theme that examines film-making, sight, controlling the images and telling the visual truth – and you have a potent project.

As is only right and proper for a thriller, nothing is quite as it seems. The troubled leading man (played by Lluís Homar), a filmmaker, has two names: Mateo Blanco and Harry Caine. The evil dickhead is strangely merged with his geeky voyeuristic son. All of them want a piece of Lena (played by Penelope Cruz) and never has Cruz been more ardent. Almodovar pays homage to her beauty by dressing her up during her screen test for the movie-within-this-movie as past beauties – from Audrey Hepburn to Marilyn Monroe (as you can see in the trailer below). The long-suffering production manager Judit García (played expressively by Blanca Portillo) and her charming son Diego (Tomar Novas) themselves are embroiled in secrets and deceptions.

If you love Almodovar, as I do unashamedly, then you will be captivated by this film.

Will Your Sex Toys Pass Airport Security?

There are so many challenges to holiday air travel - not the least the weather, the stale cabin air and getting your dildo through security.

I remember the first time I entered Israel in the late 1970s. Their airport security had that sensibility of post-9/11 Homeland Security decades before 9/11, racial profiling and all. I had reluctantly stored all of my sex toys with a friend in the States (who sold them for a fix, I found out later) and had only packed a modest bullet vibrator - I didn't want to be alone on another continent, utterly bereft of stimulation.

They did go through every item in my bag and when the security wonk found the candy-stripe battery-operated vibrator, I explained that as a professional athlete (I was a martial arts instructor at the time), it was essential therapy for my muscular health. That story worked.

Things are so different now than those days in the 70s when you could assume a lot of people didn't know from sex toys. There weren't stores (or those that existed were considered too sleazy for "nice" folks.) There was no internet. Sex workshop were not ubiquitous. It was a different world. People were still perplexed by the question of what two women might do together sexually, for gawd's sake.

So how do things stand now, here? I've just read an article by David Steinberg telling the story of how airport security searched his sex toy bag. I was turned onto this piece by Joan Price, whose important blog "Better Than I Ever Expected: Sex and Aging" I've mentioned a number of times over the years.

Here's an excerpt from Steinberg:

"The stern, older woman watching the screen backs up the belt and stops my bag under the x-ray. She points at the screen, showing her young, blonde assistant what to look for. I'm in a good mood, not too close to flight time, and find myself smiling to a traveling companion who's taking the same flight, and looking forward to a little good theatrical fun.

"Is it all right if I look in this bag?" the attendant asks with measured politeness.

"Sure, if you really want to," I answer.

I watch her face as she digs through the cuffs, the latex straps, the blindfold, the ziplock bag with condoms, rubber gloves and lube, the ziplock bag with miscellaneous nipple clamps, butt plug, and so forth, Mark Chester's wonderful spandex full-body bondage bag (if you don't have one, you should, but that's another story), the wonderful soft leather scratch gloves with the sharp metal points scattered across the palm and fingers. Her face stays 100% deadpan throughout, an impressive show of professionalism...

...Finally she finds what she's looking for -- what I knew she would get to sooner or later -- my springy little whip with the 6" metal handle..."

Steinberg goes on to describe his amusement, especially when he was ordered to drop the whip into a plastic bag and check it as a separate piece of luggage.

What about you? Have you packed your sex toys for your holiday travel or do the holidays turn off every shred of potential desire? If you're taking something that needs power, have you been sure to take out the batteries to avoid a suspicious buzzing under your seat? Have you tried for sex toys that look more like toys than sex, like the rubber duckie vibrator in the photo? Why not just pack your toys - especially if there's any metal involved - into the bag you're checking, instead of dragging them through security? If you must carry something onboard, are you prepared to stand up for your predilictions or have you already devised a brilliant cover story?

"Those clamps? I'm a writer and they're for holding my manuscripts together."

"Those cuffs? I work on a computer and they protect me against RWI - repetitive wrist inflammation."

"That red ball on a strap? My neice is teething so my sister asked me to buy her one of these."

I'd love to hear your plans, what gear you're packing and your approach to security. Will it be as confident and in-your-face as this David Steinberg? He wrote:

"I look at all the people around me and feel like the whole airport -- passengers, ticket agents, security guards -- are giving me the benefit of the doubt on this one, at least in part because I'm refusing to have it any other way. My lack of embarrassment, my lack of apology, is defining the moment and telling everyone how to respond. I feel exceptionally powerful. It is the liberation of one more level of coming out, of refusing to be made wrong for being different, for being sexually different."

Hey soldier: Don't get pregnant, but don't have your period either.

ABC News is just one outlet talking about the outrage over Maj. Gen. Anthony Cucolo III's decision to make pregnancy a court-martial offense in his sweet little corner of the Iraq war. From what I can figure 7.6% of the soldiers under his command are women. That's 1,682 soldiers for whom he also does not provide abortions or emergency birth control. Nope.

"Anyone who leaves this fight early because they made a personal choice that changed their medical status -- or contributes to doing that to another -- is not in keeping with a key element of our ethos, 'I will always place the mission first,' or three of our seven core values: loyalty, duty and selfless service," he continued. "And I believe there should be negative consequences for making that personal choice."

There are plenty more prohibitions beyond pregnancy: no sex with Iraqis (make war, not love) and no carnal knowledge of non-Americans who aren't "members of coalition forces."

And just to make women feel fully included, this article reports that "the Army already encourages its female soldiers to take medication to stop their menstrual cycle."

So what if a soldier is pregnant against her will - perhaps she was assaulted, perhaps a condom broke - whatever. Can she gain a perfectly legal abortion in order to stay at her post? Seems not. Military hospitals refuse to provide abortions, "forcing women to potentially dangerous providers of such services"

Here's something else that is annoying. Of the four Democratic senators who wrote this General asking him to recind this order, none of them are men.

Travelogue: Two Weeks in L.A. (Dec 8-21, 2009)

Tuesday Dec 8
Half-way into the transcontinental Virgin America flight I put on my sweet voice to ask the dickhead sitting in front of me if he could possibly raise his seat up just one inch which would allow me to actually open my laptop and take advantage of the free (just during the holiday period) WiFi. In a surprisingly squeaky and petulant voice, he answers, “It’s my right.” I say, “Yes, but I thought I might impose on your generosity.” He turns his back and settles in even deeper. Despite the humane leg-room and the hi-tech environment of the plane, it’s just not all that comfy having a bozo lying on my lap. And, I am to discover, one across the aisle who farts. Enthusiastically.

My only compensation is a yellowed 1961 book of fourteen Pearl S. Buck stories that I picked up for fifty cents. Her stories are old-fashioned, romantic and linear – just makes me very happy that I have declared my two-week seclusion in LA with the intention of writing, writing, writing. Well, re-writing, actually. My priority is revising my novel so that my agent can try to flog it.

We touch down to the usual cacophony of cell phone calls. Me too. I call my friend Lisa – rabbi of the first-ever queer synagogue – who is awaiting me in the cell phone lot. We arrive home at the same time as her wife Tracy – my first fiction editor back in the early 70s when she helped found the pioneering lesbian literary magazine Common Lives, Lesbian Lives out of Iowa City. She’s supported my writing ever since, including home writing hide-aways every few years.

Their new house, built in 1929, is an amazing warren of rooms painted hot orange or yellow or red and filled with a perfection of antiques and pieces from their many visits to Mexico. My favorite among a plethora of wild ceramic items is a tableau featuring the painter Frida Kahlo in a wheelchair being pushed by her husband the socialist muralist Diego Rivera (photo on left). A night-time view of the backyard swimming pool, hot tub and cabana room precedes our attack on the animal cookies Lisa has bought.

I drop into bed at 3:00am my time – midnight in California – and with the aid of my trusty Melatonin, I sleep the night away. At 7:00am, I’m ready to go.

Wednesday, Dec 9
I revise my manuscript the whole day, editing on paper and then transferring the edits to the document. When she finishes work, Tracy and I go to a great Indian restaurant to meet her friend Silvia: we’ve gotten together the other times I’ve been in L.A. Besides the fact that she’s a writer with distinctive stories to tell, I admire her focus on applying for and getting a stream of writer’s grants, writing retreats and high-level workshops. When I talk to her, I’m always appalled at my own lack of ambition and resource regarding these matters.

How, though, do I forget to take Melatonin, despite it being right on my bedside table? My night is disturbed by several instances of awakening, startled, so that finally I give it up at 5:00am and continue reading the enchanting stories of Pearl S. Buck until my hosts stir and I can slip into Tracy’s office to work, after taking a shower in “my” bathroom. I mention the shower because it is a singular design – like a super-tall phone booth but tiled with extravagantly ornamental Mexican tiles. (The photo shows half of its height.) It could start a whole new trend as one simply can’t fall down in it; you can lean gently from side wall to opposite side wall to soap your feet without any danger. The sink is from Mexico, a gorgeous ornate oval (on left). And the toilet has the efficient double flush option (half/whole) that Europeans have used for many years.

Thursday, December 10
I finish the first six (of 37) chapters, stopping now and again to go to the front of the house to watch the team of tree-trimmers give Lisa and Tracy’s massive coral tree a crew cut. It is really an impressive process, not the least the balancing act performed by the agile guys up top.

When B emails me a reminder to exercise my rotator cuff injury – dragging on now for many months – I gladly work out to some YouTube clips of Marvin Gaye and Stefan Grappelli and Harry James.

Friday December 11
As I cut back on the pages and pages of dialogue in some of my novel’s chapters, I wonder if it would make a good screenplay. I’m trying to stay focused, until Lisa offers to drop me off at the famous old LA Farmers Market where I can find postcards. She’s got a couple of appointments that will take her two hours, so I bring along the hard copy of my manuscript to work on. I find some 15 cent vintage postcards and buy a bunch, including an aw-shucks-inducing shot of animals cuddling (Tracy says they’re prairie dogs); piles of citrus at the Farmers Market itself; and various tourist postcards touting the freeways of LA, which I find bizarre. Later, though, Lisa will later explain how the freeway was an important California invention.

As it is, Lisa gets stuck in traffic and runs behind by an hour or so, but I’m very snug at the Farmers Market under a ceiling heater eating my Brazilian fried plantains and drinking my coffee as I work on the book and write out my postcards. The table to the left of me is filled with retired Jewish men in their late 70s or early 80s who are obviously regulars. With their hip haircuts and nice jeans I suspect they used to be business jet salesmen or maybe ran the front of the house of a theme restaurant.

On my right, a guy in his early 40s turns up wearing the most exquisite inlaid leather jacket commemorating Jackie Robinson. I compliment him, we exchange a few words, and I get back to work. Soon another guy, kinda sleazy, turns up and they have a verbal altercation – in Hebrew. I try not to be distracted, but in the end I intervene with something in Hebrew, so they’ll know to keep their discussion of illegal activities to a minimum.

As soon as he hears the Hebrew, my jacketed friend changes his approach altogether and starts asking where I married my husband (a trick question not unlike, When did you stop beating your wife?), how many kids I have, my address in LA, how long until I return –getting all up in my business. I’m tempted to tell him the truth: that at that very moment I’m working on a book about the Israeli anti-war movement during the 1982 invasion of Lebanon, but I don’t need the aggro.

Like a good girl, I turn down a dinner with Tracy’s friends as well as the Chanukah first-night party at Lisa’s temple. I stay home and work, but they bring me back suvganiot (jelly donuts) at 11:00 and we light the candles.

I forget from visit to visit that LA is a very Jewish city. I get the impression that there are synagogues and Chasids and stores with Jewish names everywhere. But the facts of the matter are that out of a greater L.A. population of about 10 million, the approximate census breakdown is 48% Hispanics, non-Hispanic whites 29%, Asians 13%, Blacks 9%, mixed race 2%. There are 621,000 Jews – a massive number compared to most other non-Israeli, non-NYC cities – giving them about 6% of LA’s population – probably subsumed in the Census numbers for whites.

Saturday December 12
But wait, it has been raining for some days, not the least today. Hard. Tracy discovers that the drainpipe into the side yard is causing a lake to form that is threatening to flood into the house. The next couple of hours are dramatic. Tracy and Lisa find a gardening shovel in the garage and in the pouring rain Tracy proceeds to dig a trench all the way along the side of the house nearly to the rear. Among the three of us, she’s the only one with a reliable back. She’s also handy. The woman can do anything, even conquer the elements.

The pool and hot tub are filling up from the rain, but not quite to a danger point. It is enough, though, to prevent us from using the hot tub during my visit, as the water level is above the level of the dividing wall with the pool.

We light the second night of Chanukah candles and Tracy cooks us up a meal. I am establishing a pattern of one fun diversionary activity per day. Tonight Tracy and I catch the movie “Precious.” Because Oprah Winfrey and Tyler Perry are involved, my expectations are not particularly high. But in fact it is a very powerful movie, full of abuse and growth. The entertainer Mo’Nique is devastating as the violent mother of Precious; Lenny Kravitz is charming as Nurse; but regardless of all the hype about Mariah Carey “willing” to have the no-make-up look, I did not feel she nailed the role of social worker. The nice lesbian couple who befriend Precious don’t touch each other. Warning: there is a rape scene and there are terrifying descriptions of toddler rape.

Despite criticisms I’ve read that the film reinforces stereotypes, I found it a very commanding piece of cinema, dramatizing situations that, despite being so common in our society, we rarely see depicted: like hustling a social worker to get on welfare or having your sorry butt saved by an educator who cares. It is courageous to highlight the unspeakable isolation of people being abused inside the sacrosanct nuclear family, to show bullying and its ramifications, and to reveal what unconnected, under-resourced people need to do to get by.

Small world factoid: “Precious” is based on the novel Push by Sapphire who was, like myself, first published in Common Lives, Lesbian Lives, established in the early 1970s out of Iowa City. Tracy was a founding editor.

We discover that a Trader Joes has opened in the same complex as the movie house, so we go shopping. Tracy requires a fueling at Pinkberry, a wildly popular frozen yogurt shop started by a young Korean woman and now spreading all over the place. I decline the frozen yogurt because I’ve bought myself some irresistible Trader Joe's cracker jacks.

Sunday, December 13
I wake up and start to cross the room to the bathroom when I realize that something odd is going on. Ants. Battalions of them on the floor and on the walls and over my clothes and swarms in the corners of the ceiling. Creepy. But fearless Lisa, once she finishes studying the situation and pulling out of her brain all sorts of ant-facts – like that most prefer meat (dead spiders, toe-nail clippings) to sugar – gets out a spray, a ladder, paper towels and gets to work banishing them.

I’m now hiding in Tracy’s office, following a lengthy shower and having given a good shake to my clean clothes, remembering why I like living high up in an elevator building where “they” cannot get me.

Tonight we have an amazing treat: we’re going to the Pasadena Playhouse to see “Baby it’s You.” It’s a play about the NJ housewife Florence Greenberg who, against all odds, became a music mogul in the early 1960s. After hearing three talented African-American high school friends of her daughter, Greenberg decides to package them as the Shirelles with the help of Luther Dixon – her producer, songwriter and lover. The interplay of racism and sexism doesn’t stop this team from forming Scepter Records and going on to develop the Isley Brothers, the Kingsmen and Dionne Warwick. The musical highlights that special solidarity between Jews and Blacks that was so formative in my life and entertains me with dozens of my generation’s favorite hits: Mama Said, Tonight’s the Night, Get a Job, Dedicated to the One I Love, Since I Don’t Have You, It’s my Party, Walk on By and so many more.

The talent on the stage is phenomenal, with everyone playing several parts. The band (including two women) lives up to the challenge and the singers rip out our hearts. The energy is relentless, not the least the many roles of the slick Geno Henderson (Jocko/Ron Isley/etc), the fine acting of Meeghan Holoway (Florence Greenberg) and the tortured emotion of Allan Louis (Luther Dixon). I don’t want it to end and I desperately want to see it again. And again.

Monday December 14
To make up for such a fabulous evening, I work all day.

Tuesday December 15
I drive Tracy through morning rush hour traffic to her office downtown so that I can use her car to meet my brother Neil and his girlfriend Helen at the famous Canter’s deli, originally founded in New Jersey in 1924 and in L.A. since 1931. Except for the two High Holidays, it’s open 24/7. We all three order hot pastrami and talk about Orange County, where they each live, and the challenges of establishing friendships. We end with some great pastry.

I slip over to a new Goodwill where I find a handsome sky blue corduroy shirt and when I find out there’s a sale on all long-sleeved items, I am sorry I can’t find more.

This evening Lisa, Tracy and I are off to Beverly Hills for a Chanukah party at the home of Ziva, originally from Tel Aviv, but living in L.A. for decades. A member of Lisa’s shul, she has invited a crowd over for latkes and homemade apple sauce. Talk about hosting with the mosting – Ziva makes eggless latkes for someone allergic to eggs and wheatless latkes to cater to someone else’s needs.

The crowd is a mixture of mostly women, including a couple who are adopting two siblings (they don’t know their genders) from Ethiopia because now that China will no longer give little girls to single parents and are also requiring adopting parents to sign a document attesting to their own heterosexuality, lesbians are looking to other countries.

It is a pleasure to chat with Ziva in Hebrew and to watch her college-aged son’s comfort with this roomful of women. I’ve never seen anything like Ziva’s collection of dreidels from around the world – from filigreed to china to wood. Between the foods, the songs and the company, it’s a grand evening.

Wednesday December 16
I work through the morning and then my high-school chum Addison comes round to pick me up. Tracy gives him a tour of the house and pool area and he is blown away by how beautiful it is. As per my request, he takes me for a long ride around L.A.: we stop on Hollywood Blvd where the dominance of faux-punk junk souvenirs make it seem like all L.A. tourists must be under 25 and we end up at the beach in Venice just exactly in time for an exquisite sunset. It makes me nostalgic for my apartment back home.

Addison and I haven’t spent real time together since 1965. We review our experiences of high school in Pittsburgh – and it’s amazing exchange our different impressions of the same events. We were also both founding members of the first civil rights youth group in our very segregated town.

We pick up his wife Susan and their daughter for hamburgers – again it’s my idea. They live in a complex that is inexplicably – to me – gated, but very sweet. These are former military barracks, gutted and redone by the city and sold as condos. There are whole streets in L.A. that are gated and many complexes. I can’t figure out if it is a security or status measure. Most amazing L.A. fact? My old buddy is now a grandfather!

Thursday December 17
My friend Sarah is a writer I met through our enduring activism in the National Writers Union. She has an old-fashioned beauty about her, a tinge of hippy floral that led me, from the first time I saw her, to call her Princess. She tempts me with such arousing possibilities: an exhibition of Rembrandt drawings, a beautiful museum garden and a famous Korean women’s spa – but I manage to keep a grip and insist we limit it to lunch. At Lisa’s recommendation, we set out to Larchmont Street, very gentrified indeed, and settle for bowls of soup and just enough time to run down life’s checklist. Sarah impresses me with her ability to put aside time to write by arranging writing dates with others where they both bring their laptops and just, well, write.

I am loving L.A. – as I do every infrequent visit. I love the immigrant energy, the small enterprises, the infinite exhibitions, productions and entertainments. It really does feel like the entertainment capital of the world. I dig the low-rise stuccos, the unusually horizontal architecture, the colorful enterprises stuffed into shacks.

Friday December 18
I finish the full revision of my novel with a sense that I still want to have one more pass over it. My mentor, the late and lovely Sarah Wernick, taught me that revision is like peeling an onion: you’ve got to take it layer by layer. I continue to suspect that – sex and all – this novel would suit a young adult market, but my agent has her doubts. It is a relief to have actually accomplished the main task I set for myself in coming here.

Back in Boston, my dear friends Clint and Judy’s first grandchild Huxley has been born after heroic efforts by his parents Aldis and Jason. Already photos of Huxley’s handsome self are posted online so I am forced to go to the (self)forbidden (for the duration of this trip) Facebook to check him out. Judy’s my age – how could she possibly be a grandma when she’s such a cute little thing herself?

The highlight of the season at Rabbi Lisa’s shul is the eighth day of Chanukah party which, falling on a Friday night, is even more of a big deal. I am, of course, an anarchist, atheist socialist without a shred of religious belief or feeling, but I am persuaded by the enthusiasm of all around me that I shouldn’t miss this event.

Over 100 people arrive to BCC (Beit Chaim Hadashim: The House of New Life) and once again I am taken aback by how much this queer shul is a very real shul, full of a profound sense of community, a congregation with a shared way of praying, committees that function effectively (they just bought a bigger building), a choir that is well-rehearsed and joyous, refreshments that are ready when needed and even a functioning Saturday religious school for the increasing numbers of children at BCC. Families with two daddies and two mommies abound – a phenomenon I’m well aware of, but do not much encounter in my own life. One particularly bright moment – quite literally – is when dozens of menorahs brought by congregants are lit simultaneously to burn throughout the service.

Saturday December 19
It’s getting close to the end of my stay. Today I don’t get much done. It is going to hit 80 degrees, so Tracy takes me for a luxurious lunch at her favorite beach-side restaurant in Venice – where she and Lisa had their intimate Thanksgiving dinner. I’m panting for protein and starch – which explains the three eggs, potatoes, apple sausage and apricot scone.

We stroll the very wide beach – I assume the tide is out – to near the water before doubling back along the boardwalk filled with clocks made of miniature surfboards, beaded jewelry going for between $1.00 and $2.00, and portraits of Bob Marley. Along the way we run into the massive Kush Clubhouse, subtitled CannaMerchant Inc. It’s a medicinal pothouse. Tracy takes my picture in front and I climb the stairs only to be told by a security guard, unnecessarily gruffly, that I can’t come in without a Dr’s recommendation. But wait. No problem, just around the back of the building is a doctor who will apparently, for a small fee, give just such a recommendation. Our parking meter is too close to running out for me to take up the kind doctor’s services.

In the evening we go to Pedro Almodovar’s latest film, "Broken Embraces," with a colleague of Tracy’s. I’m reviewing the wonderful film elsewhere, so suffice it to say that scenes of Penelope Cruz topless is only one of many of the movie’s fine attributes.

Afterwards we stop at Fro-Play – yet another frozen yogurt shop. But with a difference. As you enter, you face a wall that resembles a bank of ATM machines. These however deliver varied flavors of frozen yogurt and sherbet out of dispensers I remember from soft ice cream shops. Further along are trays of toppings – from sprinkles to granola – and tubs of fruits – from raspberries to pineapple chunks – for all of which you pay 32 cents per ounce. One very personable young woman runs the whole shop, making the overhead rather low. On the tables is a rather boring vertical game (I won on my first try) that’s a mix of checkers and tic-tac-toe that everyone plays while eating.

Sunday December 20
It is my last day before flying home. I decline a theatre opportunity with Lisa and Tracy to work on this travelogue. Not only have I finished a run on this giant novel of mine, I have also managed to stay off Facebook for nearly two weeks as I said I would do.

While I pack up, I listen to the news on NPR for perhaps the first time since I left. Even in my L.A. writing cocoon without Facebook and television, I have not neglected my political interests, though, including following online the disgusting failure of Obama’s administration to achieve any kind of positive health care reform. Or rather, failure to even try. And allowing this bill to erode women’s rights and health. In a phone call, my partner calls health care reform “the Afghanistan of domestic policy.”

As I begin to wrap up, Tracy calls to say they’re on their way home and that we can take a hot tub if I’ll go out back and turn everything on. She instructs me via the phone and soon the three of us are ensconced in bubbly hot luxury. I’ve only been in a hot tub a couple of times – in Vermont at Uncle Dickie and Todd’s place – but this one is rectangular, tiled, a bit different (see photo).

Monday December 21
I’ve been trying to get an aisle seat for the return trip since the day I made the reservation and couldn’t get one online. I’ve spoken on the phone to a series of nice people who could only makes notes on my reservation suggesting someone give me an aisle seat. Yesterday I made my last call and as soon as I heard the chap’s voice, I knew he was a Friend of Dorothy, as we say in Britain. As he repeated my confirmation number, I got my chance to cozy up. “B as in Bird,” he says, “L as in Lincoln. The number 7. And Q as in Queen.”

“Oh I loved the rock band Queen,” I say.

“So did I!” he screeches, “My favorite ever.”

“I was in London when Freddy died,” I confide.

“Tragedy,” he mourns. "I'll see to your seat."

As it turns out, the plane is completely full, every passenger turned up and successive pleadings at check-in, customer service and the gate yield zilch. As I wheel away from my last rejection, despondent, I hear my name on the loud speaker. I run back and it turns out that, completely serendipitously, a father and son would appreciate if I would trade my center seat for their aisle so they can sit together. Huge massive relief.

Too soon. In case I need reminding what a shitty year it’s been, I find myself smack in the middle of an emotional family who are crawling over me and passing children and pretzels past me. The mother and the 18 month old are on my right; the father is across the aisle with the three-year-old. The children are screaming, the mother is sobbing. All four family members are sick and snotty and sneezing and disgusting and the baby is smells like a big poop. The guy in front of me is also lying in my lap so I won't be using the computer that much.

My situation is not unique. Those not sitting next to one of the gaggle of infants or pack of toddlers, may be neighbored by a cat or dog, of which there are a surprising number. The dog behind me, though, is heavily drugged and silent. There are waves of sound-effects. If one child starts hollering, it seems contagious throughout the cabin. If one adult starts coughing, it seems to induce a militant spread-the-germs movement up and down the rows.

We arrive on time. My bag is among the first to hit the carousel. B is there to pick me up. It’s not as cold and snowy as I anticipated. My apartment is exactly as I left it. And I hope I have picked up some new habits of focus and concentration that are going to support me in writing all the books backed up in my fingertips.

DVD Review: Gilda Live

The name “Gilda” will forever conjure up memories of Gilda Radner (1946-1989), perhaps the most beloved and hilarious of the original Saturday Night Live cast. In 1979, during a summer break in SNL, the comedian’s one-woman show on Broadway was filmed by director Mike Nichols. This no-frills, cheaply packaged DVD has been put out by Warner Brothers as part of their Archive Collection. Luckily, Gilda requires no frills – her gargantuan talent is all we need.

Drawing on her SNL characters, but spiced up without the censorship imposed by television broadcasting, Gilda opens with her racy Let’s Talk Dirty to the Animals, adding a touch of Lenny Bruce to her own unique physical humor.

She gives us edgy versions of her signature characters, holding nothing back. One wonders where she finds the reserves of intense energy in that petite body. Gilda plays Judy Miller, the hyperkinetic kid literally climbing the walls, treating her bed like a trampoline and letting her emotions shriek with a cathartic abandon. She plunges into the depths of excess with Candy Slice, her version of a self-immolating, drugged-out rock ‘n roll star, ala Mick Jagger / Patti Smith. [See the YouTube clip below.] Nor are we deprived of her other characters, including Lisa Loopner, Roseanne Roseannadanna and Emily Litella. And of course the 1960s Jewish girl group Rhonda and the Rhondettes turn up with their identical, high-camp Farah Fawcett hairdos.

In between her scenes, she has two sidekicks who do bits while she is changing her costumes. A young Paul Shaffer (then a band member on SNL, now the band leader for David Letterman) gives surprisingly nuanced comic performances. Don Novello plays his SNL character Father Guido Sarducci, spokesman for the comatose Cardinal (high on a piece of a Quaalude). [See the YouTube clip below.] The wit in these pieces remains no less relevant and biting today.

The film is shot like a modern concert documentary, complete with glimpses of Gilda’s high-speed costume changes, of the controlled backstage chaos of a theatrical evening and of an adoring audience. In fact, Mike Nichols opens with a shot of Gilda in her dressing room trying to do something with her wild hair. “No hairbrush!” she laughs into the camera. “Opening night and there’s no hairbrush.”

This spectacularly funny DVD is a bittersweet experience for Gilda Ratner’s fans, knowing by hindsight that she is to pass away so very young a decade later. Her super vitality, her ability to so utterly inhabit her alter-egos and her willingness to expose herself to physical and emotional danger remain unsurpassed. The adulation of the audience is as palpable as Gilda’s sincere gratification.

This review first appeared on EdgeBoston.com.

Here are Gilda and Paul Shaffer doing the edgy Candy Slice and the Slicers.

And here is the Five Minute University from Don Novello playing Father Guido Sarducci.

No Way Through

Checkpoints are one of the most obtrusive and demeaning methods by which the Israelis control the Palestinians whose land they have been occupying since 1967. The checkpoints cause incredible harm for it is simply impossible to get from any point A to any point B without gruesome and repeated delays and detours, as well as endless humiliation at the hands of young - sometimes teen-aged - Israeli soldiers.

The photo on the left was taken in September, 2008, as people tried to cross from the West Bank town Ramallah to Jerusalem to attend their mosque.

Here's just one example of the harm done, according to the BBC news:

Between 2000 and 2006, at least 68 Palestinian women gave birth at Israeli checkpoints, according to the Palestinian health ministry. Of these 35 women miscarried, and five died in childbirth.

According the United Nations there are more than 600 physical obstructions, including checkpoints, to the movement of Palestinians in the West Bank.

How does it feel? Take seven minutes and watch this short film, No Way Through, please.

I Saw Dylan Perform Live Saturday Night

All around us in the Wang Theater, the buzz was building. About 20 minutes later than the concert had been scheduled to begin, those in the front rows started screaming. The wave of adulation as he came out on the stage was profound and heartfelt. What kind of impact, I wondered, would a steady diet of that degree of fan-love do to the mind of an entertainer?

In Bob Dylan’s case, it seems to have made him… well, a rude and parsimonious performer. His musical styles may have changed over the decades, but not his attitude towards his audiences. Perhaps he’s of the “treat them mean; keep them keen” persuasion. He certainly wasn’t going to give us any sense that he was happy to see us, too. No, he was going to ignore us, never speak one word to us, never show the slightest emotion, excitement or passion.

My partner had surprised me with tickets to the Bob Dylan concert this weekend. I used to see him in the ‘60s at Club 47, an intimate basement folk club in Harvard Square. He was a curly-haired, rosy-cheeked lad in those days – and taciturn even then.

Here at the Wang, we sat in the center of the orchestra section. Luckily I had brought the Russian opera glasses that had been a present from my late friend Nina.

But what a bummer. The sound sucked. It was like a wall of noise, making every song a bit of a homogeneous jumble. Dylan’s band had been so highly praised that I was expecting music, not mud. Other than “Lay Lady Lay,” – which I really liked – Dylan’s reinterpretations of favorites turned them into a comfort-food-like sameness that was, at the same time, quintessential Dylan, for when we could hear it, that gravelly rasp gave it all a familiarity.

His show is very professional – even slick. There’s not a spontaneous moment, not a glance towards the audience or a lead-in anecdote to any song. There is only the playlist.

The set-up of the stage is calculated to isolate Dylan and the band from the audience. The band is spread across the stage, in a kind of rising semi-circle (the drummer is at the apex) with Dylan to the audience’s right. All the instruments and mikes are set in Dylan’s direction and the band members rarely look at anything but Dylan. They are a function of him – even when they’re doing a solo. It’s aimed to him, never to us. Not a one of them is having fun. There is no smile, ever. It is an especially dour group of white boys.

Dylan is crazy skinny, but dressed up and dapper in a hat, fancy shirt, dark vest and jacket. He stands with a certain elegant grace and while his movements are subtle and diminutive, they are also cool. When he’s not on an electric keyboard (most often) or guitar (a few times), he stands with his legs apart, knees slightly bent, feet parallel, and gesticulates with a muted version of crooner gestures, opening his arms wide, pointing his finger.

After each song, the lights go down. They huddle in the dark and decide on the next composition and are back in their places when the lights go up – all the musicians riveted on Dylan. They are supposed to play for 2 ¼ hours, but they play for 1 ¾ hours. It is enough for me. They don’t do an encore, but by the end of this cold, alienating set, the audience of multiple generations is no longer quite so adoring.

Here is a clip from a different town a few days earlier this week on their tour. His style is the same and the music is just as muddy. People paid big bucks in these hard times to see him, but he wouldn’t give us a thing. Not love. Not recognition. Very little nostalgia. Not a modicum of clarity in the music. It was a demonstration of constipated rote. My question: Why is the man touring when he obviously dislikes his work?

The Ross Sisters Get All Tied Up

Don't get too excited - this isn't a bondage clip. It's the only piece of film remaining from the career of the Ross Sisters, siblings from Texas who created a song/dance/contortionist act from the 1940s. Taken from the film "Broadway Rhythm," the first minute seems much like the Andrew Sisters mold, but after that it gets pretty crazy. Since this is Friday the 13th and you're probably hiding in your abode behind locked doors, a hunk of garlic hanging around your neck and some salt to fling over your shoulder, you probably need some entertainment. Enjoy, while these girls truly get their knickers in a twist!

Q&A: Step Away From my Crotch with that Scalpel

I received a note from my dear friend Mike – a multi-talented gay man who follows my blog. He was perplexed by an article about pussy surgery on the BBC website and he wrote:

Q:  Sue, Perhaps you are the only person I can ask about this: What the hell is a 'perfect vagina'? And who are women doing this for? Anyway - hoping that you are well, and of course that your vagina is happy, or even perfect. Mike

A: I clicked the link Mike included and was appalled. The article claims a rise in labioplasty – that is, cosmetic surgery on women’s genitals. The goal seems to be to reduce the size of pussy lips for women who are embarrassed (presumably at being adults).  According to the article “In studies dating back to 1950, examined by the researchers, dissatisfaction with the way the vagina looked was the primary reason for surgery, with patients also speaking of low self-esteem and sexual difficulties.”

Then why not suggest a bit of therapy or a lot of feminism to these women? Why slice them up? This is part of the tyranny of skinniness, the fetishization of Lolita-like looks and the ever-present medicalization of women’s sexuality. Blame the woman for her sexual dissatisfaction when her partner forgets where her clit is or only likes oral in his direction.

When women get to know their sexual bodies, they discover that rather than being invisible and hidden, just a miniature version of a man, our gear is really big and special. The first time I saw a shaved pussy, I was amazed at the size of the labia – how rich, luscious, full they are under their furry protection. And only in recent years have we learned how wildly extensive the root of the clit is.

So Mike, the answer to your question about what the hell a “perfect vagina” could be is: a healthy, pampered one with a proud and confident owner. A “perfect vagina” is one that has not been submitted to the surgeon for a facelift, not been doused with stinky perfume to hide its natural aroma and not been forcibly clamped into a vicious chastity belt (unless that’s part of a consensual sexual play scenario.)

As for me, I’m as well as can be expected in a country in which the Democrats have turned into Republicans and the Republicans have turned into Teabaggers. And, yes, my vagina is a lot happier than the rest of me and wants me to thank you for your kind enquiries.

Review: Here Come the Girls

“Here Come the Girls” is an extraordinary collection of short lesbian films from nine well-known and breakthrough directors from the UK, the USA and Canada. Several of these films are prize-winners and festival favorites, but nearly all of them can brag of polished production values and a riveting narrative. 

Some films deal with feelings that are out of control. In a witty short called “A Soft Place” (dir. Suzanne Guacci) a lesbian and her married straight lover meet up in a laundromat over a soiled duvet in a display of hyper-neurosis on the part of the married woman and super-human patience on the part of the dyke. Director Angela Cheng’s “Wicked Desire” looks at the fraught, emotional impact on families of their kids’ exploration of gender identity and sexuality. The deeply moving “Congratulations Daisy Graham” (dir. Cassandra Nicolaou) grapples with aging, mental illness and physical disease. Like the best short-story writers, in a mere 15 minutes, Nicolaou succeeds in drawing us into the past and present lives of this couple.

Other films deal with violence, whether between “Dani and Alice” (dir. Roberta Munroe) in a disturbingly honest look at abuse inside a lesbian relationship, or unexplained, mysterious violence in “Late,” directed by that dyke household name, Guinevere Turner. A playful boxing match opens “Below the Belt” (dir. Dominique Cardona and Laurie Colbert) in a disappointing film about young lovers that lacks sharp characterization.

The period piece “Private Life” (dir. Abbe Robinson) follows the boss’s secretly cross-dressing daughter as she meets up with one of the comely weavers from her dad’s textile factory. Set in northern England in 1952, it offers us the stealth, fear, police oppression and passion that accompanied queer love in the “homogeneous” 50s.

Sexuality is a strong theme, not the least in a gorgeous tribute to femme lesbians called “Fem,” directed by Inge “Campbell” Blackman, the well-known London filmmaker. (Disclosure: Campbell is an acquaintance.) The film is narrated by Peggy Shaw, the irresistible butch half of the veteran performance duo “Split Britches,” and features a bevy of femme dykes including Lois Weaver, the ever-sexy other half of “Split Britches,” and Cherry Smyth, the Irish poet. “Fem” offers ten minutes of tribute to that uniquely lesbian fem/butch dynamic. The gaze here is butch; the visual luscious femininity. “You love the woman inside the man that I am, even though beside me the closet swings open and there is nowhere to hide.” In contrast to the butch’s risky exposure is the femme’s potential visual assimilation. “And when you are invisible, you become my gender spy, my queer Mata Hari.” By the way, without being a spoiler, I can assure you that the DVD is worth the price of the dripping honey shot.

China, Come Back: A True Story

As I come out of the pharmacy in Davis Square, I am astounded by the intensity of the rain. I take a breath and then sprint across the street, jumping into my car as quickly as possible. Twisting around to my left to check the on-coming cars, I am trying to pull out into traffic safely. But suddenly there is a startling banging on the passenger-side window. A young woman, her long hair dripping, is crazily pointing at the top of her head and trying to get into my car via the locked door. It’s not scary – it’s just weird.

I open up the door, hustling to toss the CD books, the bag of fruit, the extra sweater and my purse from the passenger seat into the back as she clamors in and slams her door shut. “Follow that bus!” she screams. “My hat’s on that bus.”

I don’t hesitate. This request seems perfectly reasonable in these stormy circumstances, despite the decibels and the angst. I pull out in the direction of a bus that is at least ten cars in front of me. “I’m China,” she says, gulping air after each phrase. “I left my hat on the 87 bus. I realized it just as I got out of the bus and the door closed behind me. The driver wouldn’t open back up. She pulled away as I pounded on her doors.”

China obviously makes a habit of smacking glass. “I love that hat.” Is she hyperventilating? “I know we can catch her.” In fact, the bus happens to be heading for my neighborhood, but the rush-hour traffic and the monsoon are extending the distance between us. Within minutes we lose sight of it altogether.

On her lap China is holding a dry umbrella. “Yeah,” she says when she sees me glance at it, “I didn’t have time to think or even to open this.” She is in her twenties, with long auburn hair. Clearly she’s more than just a beautiful face – she’s incredibly determined to retrieve her favorite accessory. I find this perfectly reasonable.

I concentrate on catching the bus. It has become our joint quest, China and me. By now I too am nearly hyperventilating. I press through puddles and traffic, but there is no bus in sight. Interspersed between my clutching the steering wheel as I lean forward to peer through the downpour and China’s stories about herself and her questions about my life, are her fraught exclamations – “There she is! Faster, faster!”

We get past a Volkswagon VW that, in trying to turn left, has been holding us up. “I used to have one of those,” I tell her. “Years ago. My friend Maddog was a VW mechanic and she put it together for me from a ’58 engine and a ’64 body. In the 70s, I sold that sucker for $600.”

“Do you live on Harvard Street?” For some reason I accept her non-sequitor question as if she were one of those puzzling members of my family.

“No.”

“Because once I was hit by a car and a woman your age with a VW really helped me. Her face is a blur, because, well, you know, I had just been hit by a car.” Makes sense to me. China obviously conflates her Knights in shining armor – at least those of a certain age.

I drive several miles down Broadway, not once spotting the bus. I’ve arrived at my neighborhood – the center of which may be the final destination of that elusive 87 bus. She wants me to keep going, but once I am a few blocks past my building, I tell China that I’ve done about as much as I can.  My friend Mary is arriving momentarily so I’m really sorry but I have to get home. China’s head is swiveling desperately. She wants the bus that stole her favorite hat and she is not going to hear anything that might impede her search. In her mind I’ve signed on for the duration. Charming as the idea is, I keep in mind that I am not a lifer in China’s drama.

 I turn into the library and do a U-turn to head back to my own place. Along the way I look for an 87 bus stop so that I can send China back to Davis Square, where I picked her up. But then she screeches into my ear, “There she is!” I gun it in order to pull up right next to the bus, which is turning left. I am in the right lane – forbidden to turn. All I can do is honk and honk, but the bus driver is oblivious.

So the race is back on. “Go straight and take the next left,” China hollers excitedly. “We’ll cut her off on her way back down Broadway.” I accelerate down several blocks, watching my own building blur by, until I can make a legal left towards Broadway. I drive up to Broadway, but am stopped by a red light at the corner when the bus whizzes by. The chase has again cranked up. The driver doesn’t stop at the closest bus stop, the next stop, or the one after that – with this rain, no one is out on the streets. She is racing so fast that the bus is listing from side to side.

At this point I am ready to speed up, pass the bus and screech to a stop in front of it – just to end the adventure in the hopes of getting back home before my guest arrives. Luckily I just read about a man who was arrested for kidnapping for having trapped a woman in her car with his in the same way in a parking lot.

The god of red lights finally does me a favor and stops us both, side by side. Again I honk and this time the driver turns to look down on me. “Now!” I yell to China, as I try to sustain the driver’s gaze: I gesticulate, now pointing to China, now pointing to the bus doors, now begging her to wait a minute.

China crosses in front of me and then stands in the downpour knocking on the bus doors, a look of painful anticipation on her face. The driver looks at her and then at me. I’m a witness, I think she’s thinking. She has to do something. She opens the doors, China jumps up on the stairs and the light turns green. I take a right to double back to the main street and go home, panting. Suddenly my car feels cavernously empty and I wonder when next China will drop into it.

Review: Cagney & Lacey: The Menopause Years

I must admit to at first finding “The Menopause Years” a rather annoying title for this boxed set of the four post-series movies (1994-6) of those ground-breaking detectives: Cagney and Lacey. But lo and behold, the first movie “The Return” - the highest rated TV movie of 1994 - actually deals with the onset of Christine Cagney’s (Sharon Gless) hot flashes, shortly after she marries, at 49, a rich businessman. And not just that. It looks at ageing, as Harvey, Mary Beth Lacey’s (Tyne Daly) sweet husband, has a major heart-attack and becomes afraid to have sex.  Because of his incapacity for employment, Lacey returns from retirement to work with Cagney again.

In “Together Again,” the friends are trying to solve a case and save an innocent drunk’s life. Cagney, still prickly after all these years, chases a homeless man who has stolen her take-away across the city. She’s a bit on edge because her new married life isn’t really working out. And with its characteristic social awareness, Harvey (John Karlen), Lacey’s sick husband, notes that they are one more health crisis away from bankruptcy.

“The View Through the Glass Ceiling” contrasts Lacey’s principled approach to life with Cagney’s self-centered ambition. Dealing with a case about a possible dirty cop brings out the worst in Cagney. “True Convictions” puts Cagney into another man’s arms, this time the married father of a murdered young woman. Her new attachment gives her yet another opportunity to demonstrate her lack of principles, as she places her affair above her legal responsibilities.

If you’re happy to walk down memory’s lane with the ever-empathetic Tyne Daly (Lacey) and the nearly-butch Sharon Gless (Cagney), you’ll find these four 90-minute films a treat. But it is in the accompanying four interviews that the precious treasure of this set resides. First is Barney Rosenzweig, the driving force behind the series, explaining that he was motivated by his friendships with early feminists. He built this first television model that privileged character over action. Rosenweig’s recitation of what it took for the series to make it to the screen is riveting. It was an international success “I was backstage when Paul McCartney asked Sharon Gless for her autograph,” he reveals.

His now-wife Barbara Corday and her friend Barbara Avedon co-created the original series and these later films. In her interview she points to how their feminism impacted on both the process and the content of their work.  

Gless herself had to fight her corner at the start. “I was the blond with the tits, and I wasn’t going to have it.” Her criticism of these movies is accurate: “The worst move was having Cagney get married.” She points out that theirs was the first cop series in which cases were actually lost.

Daly, a more political observer, comments about her character’s married life: “We weren’t beautiful and we weren’t invested in being beautiful. We were sexy. And we were blue collar. We weren’t the couple on the hill. We were the couple on the couch.”

Overall, the Cagney & Lacey franchise garnered 36 Emmy nominations and won 14 Emmy Awards in their seven seasons and when the network tried to cancel them, a successful letter-writing campaign kept them on air from 1982-88. In these later films, while we may find their personalities more pronounced and their fitness a bit eroded, they continue to be unapologetically engaging.

This review first appeared on www.EdgeBoston.com

DETAILS
4 DVD box set
$39.95 SRP

BOX SET CONTENTS:
•    Disc 1. Cagney & Lacey: The Return (November 6, 1994)
•    Disc 2. Cagney & Lacey: Together Again (May 2, 1995)
•    Disc 3. Cagney & Lacey: The View Through the Glass Ceiling (October 25, 1995)
•    Disc 4. Cagney & Lacey: True Convictions (January 29, 1996)

 

Stepping Up with Charles Coe

After eight years of Bush meeting all my (low) expectations and too many months of Obama meeting few of them, I am happy to report on a moment in which life did not disappoint. Let me tell you the story of the recent Coe Family Fundraiser.

My friend Charles Coe is a monster talent. I’m not talking about his heart-squeezing poetry, his witty prose, his killer cooking, his melodious singing, his exaggerated capacity as a volunteer, his smooth MCing or his gawd-damned good looks. I’m not even talking about his role in the community as peripatetic fundraiser and all around I’ll-back-you-upper. I’m talking about his ability to pull people together.

The last few years have been tough ones in the family of Charles Coe. His dad died several years ago and to Charles fell the responsibility of looking after his mother, his sister Carol and their home in Indianapolis, Indiana. Then his mom died. More recently, Carol got very ill with cancer and Charles realized that the additional expenses this involved had pushed him past the limit of his resources. “I’m all tapped out,” he told me.

He called together a couple of close friends to discuss putting on a fundraiser for himself. Several well-known poets stepped up to read and a plethora of unspeakably cool silent auction items began piling up, not the least a brunch for four prepared by a former corporate chef and a vacation weekend in a San Francisco apartment minutes from Golden Gate Park. We put out the following message with an Evite covering the event details, and we suggested that those who couldn’t make it just send along a check.

There are times when a family needs a hand. For the Coe family, this is that time. My sister, Carol, has been suffering from liver cancer for two years. Now she’s at the final stage and is about to be moved from the hospital to hospice care. Her son and I are unable to cover all the increasing medical and end-of-life expenses. I’m holding a poetry fundraiser in hopes that my friends and colleagues can help our family deal with this pressing financial burden.

Charles asked me to make arrangements for the venue and to be the MC, running the podium part of the evening. His friend Zoe took on the silent auction. Barry offered to 
photograph the evening. Others picked up refreshments, rented and managed a sound system and decorated the hall with poster portraits of Carol. A gaggle of friends offered (and did) to turn up early on the night to set up.

Then Charles got a call that he had to go to Carol in their hometown of Indianapolis. He picked up and went. Several days later, Carol passed away and Charles remained to make final arrangements.

Zoe and I scrambled to hold it all together. We put out a reminder for the event with this message from Charles:

I'm sad to say that my sister Carol passed away on Friday, October 9th, and was laid to rest this past Saturday. Now the focus of tonight's fundraiser is on helping my family deal with her final expenses, and other expenses too numerous to mention here.

But I don't want tonight to be a somber event; I want it to be a celebration of community--an acknowledgment of the tremendous love and support it's been my privilege to receive over these last weeks. So I look forward to seeing you all tonight. And I sincerely thank those who can't attend but have sent contributions.

Setting-up the event in an hour had the usual share of minor drama (would the hot water boil in time for tea?), but by the time friends started to pour in, the hall was ready to receive them and their donations. Pastries and hot drinks were scarfed up we recognized each other – friends and strangers alike - as vital to this palpable sense of community. People crowded around the auction tables laden with arts, crafts and coupons. A bidding war ensued on my silent auction offering: a 90-minute dance lesson in bossa-nova, cha-cha, meringue or swing.
 
We began. I welcomed everyone and introduced the remarkable poets, one after the other: Danielle Legros Georges, Barbara Helfgott Hyett and Fred Marchant. It was a poetry-loving crowd who knew and honored these well-known voices. And then I introduced Charles:

When I first met Charles through the National Writers Union, he introduced himself to me (and perhaps to some of you) as a “bald-headed Negro from Indianapolis, Indiana.” I soon discovered that Charles is one of the most social guys around. I don’t mean that he’s a party lad – although he is that – but he is a magnet for people whether it’s for a literary or a humanitarian event.

Who knew, during his misspent youth, when he was lead singer for an Indianapolis rock-& roll cover band, … who knew he’d become such a pillar of our community. He moved to New England in the mid-70s and started his career as an “ever-evolving earthling” – always growing, always flowing. He began with song writing and went on to create knock-out poetry and prose. His book Picnic on the Moon was published by Leapfrog Press and his essays, often humorous, have appeared in publications from Harvard Magazine to the Boston Weekly Dig

He serves as co-chair of our National Writers Union/Boston and as the head of the National Writers United Service Organization – national non-profit companion org to NWU. His emphasis is on building community among the writers organizations, so we often work in collaboration with the other groups.

I think of Charles as the guy who steps up. He steps up to organize fundraisers, especially around violence against women - whether it’s for the Casa Myrna Vasquez refuge for women or for the Women’s Network in Lawrence or Jane Doe in Boston. He organized fundraisers after Katrina and after the Tsunami, and he has appeared at a gazillion events that others put together.

He steps up for friends in more or less need. He brought over his drill and ladder and other butch tools when no one else could penetrate my ceiling to hang a light. When he couldn’t either, he bought some special bits to try again.

He threw me the best book party a girl could wish for when my book on Sarah Palin came out.

Probably many people here could talk about how Charles steps up. But we’ve seen him mount the highest steps, through the illness and death in recent years of his father, his mother and now Carol his sister. Luckily, he’s got broad shoulders, our Charles does, and he’s been a rock for his family.

But this succession of family heartbreaks stretched his resources too far. When Charles needed a hand, he totally and completely believed that his community would step up for him. And he was profoundly  right. Look around the room and know that for every one of us here, there are at least one or two other people who couldn’t make the date but stepped up to make the gesture.

I think most of us feel lucky to be able to show Charles that we have learned his lesson of generosity and friendship. He’s stepped up so often for us and the things we believe in, and this time we have met his own high standards.

Not only do we get to come together to celebrate the love Charles has demonstrated for Carol and the community he has built, we even get to hear him read. I give you Charles Coe.

In the end, Charles reached his monetary goal and completely over-shot his hugs quotient. The truth is that from the start I was impressed – but concerned – with Charles’ belief that the community to which he had given so much would totally get his back. For him, it was a life-changing experience – a sense that there is somewhere to turn.

People with class privilege, with close family members who have resources, with inherited wealth or big jobs, they live with this assumption all the time. Many were born with – if not with a silver spoon in their mouths – at least a safety net under their asses. For those on whom others depend, those who have to fight for everything we get, those  who most feel the impact of the ravaging so many of us are taking at the hands of the bonus classes and their political plants, our only recourse is to be loved. Charles has given the love and just look – his peeps were there to return it when he asked for it. He believed it from the beginning. He knew that this was one investment – his willingness to step up when others needed him – that neither Wall Street nor Washington could diminish. We all want a bit of that generosity-magic that Charles has – so he gave us this opportunity.