Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Welcome to My Heart, Mind and Fist

Are you a Consenting Adult? Me too. I’m an activist, author, journalist and blogger, offering frank talk about aging, sex, the Middle East, class rage and ballroom dancing. Over a year ago I single-handedly brought down the McCain/Palin ticket through my book Thanks But No Thanks: The Voter's Guide to Sarah Palin.

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My Lungs and Millionaire Matchmaker

I don’t think I’ve ever wasted over two weeks before. And I see no end in sight. I am just sitting and staring and choking and not writing and not reading and not working and not dancing. I’m not hanging with my peeps – none of whom are enthusiastic about breathing the same cooty-fied air as me. When Judy or Barry brings me groceries, they more or less leave them outside the door.

I’ve had plenty of online support from friends across the world. Many have called, but it has been hard to talk at all without bringing on a coughing jag.

I remind you that I’m supposed to be off in New Hampshire having time alone to write and that I set up this break from teaching months ago. I remind you that I’m starting another term in less than a week and there will not be another chance to write until mid-August.

To add insult to injury, my chair - from which I read, watch TV, eat (on my tray on the chair’s matching foot stool), edit, chatter - the chair given to me by my friend Howard who had it upholstered perfectly, my chair is broken. Its innards are fucked up and something mechanical is awry. It is nearly impossible to find a 50s slider of dimensions to suit a person of my size and I am devoted to my chair. Now I’m stuck at home day after day without a proper perch.

I am unable to do anything productive, not even clean, although my environment is degrading all the time. All I can do is to try to keep up with my copious medications, a profusion assembled over three different Dr appointments. Big Pharma is the only beneficiary of my wretched situation.

I have constructed a kind of spread sheet to accommodate the two nasty inhalers (one requires two puffs twice a day; the other two puffs four times a day – both require that I rinse my mouth thoroughly to avoid Thrush, whatever gross evil that might be), the cough meds (three to four capsules and codeine syrup at night), the antibiotics, the salt-water gargles, the painkillers to help with the stomach muscle strained during violent coughing, and the expensive homeopathic cough remedies I’m hoping will help. There’s probiotic yogurt against the yeast infections antibiotics can cause in women, plus things to suck against the cough and sore throat – from cough drops to Canadian Wintergreens to M&Ms with peanut butter centers. Luckily, I already had a stock of soft tissues.

I can only read about fifty words at a time – so People magazine and The Enquirer suit my simple-mindedness. I can’t absorb the TV news or follow documentaries, so I was only saved from the insidious Millionaire Matchmaker by a sudden run of Portlandia the other day. I’m going to Portland this September, so I can count that as research.

I’m trying to pull together my Will – a document that I’ve been working on since the early 80s and which has gone through many incarnations as friends die or fade, as life and locations change, and as death sneaks closer. My Will is full of lectures and declarations and doling out this, that and the other to my nearests and dearests. There is money for parties in each of my three countries and flippings of the bird in print to those who have betrayed me. I’m halfway through an update and rather stuck. I don’t have sufficient lucid moments to get the job done.

Months ago I watched as many of my friends and students got this flu/cold. It would start like a cold, get intense and then turn into bronchitis and/or pneumonia. I knew many, many people who went through this, unable to shake the scary cough for many weeks. It was so widespread and so devastating that I kept wondering why there was nothing in the local news about it. One gets three cases around the country of the flesh-eating bug and the papers are full of it. The State prepares for a flu epidemic on a massive public scale even though it never arrives. So why no mention of this scourge? And of course, I also bragged about never getting sick in general and not picking this thing up in particular. But the joke’s on me. These bugs have been crouching off to the side, the meanies, awaiting the three weeks I fought so hard to set up for myself to write. They struck on, literally, the last day of work before my break and they are going to continue to drain me until, at least, next Monday when I am to return to my grueling work schedule. They must be right-wing germs.

It’s Only Pneumonia

Is this the longest I’ve ever been sick? I can’t recall a more extended bout of feeling like crap. It started with a sore throat and swollen glands and then turned into trachea-itis and bronchitis. Now, with evidence of some fever and heightened white cell count, I’ve graduated to pneumonia.

Every surface of my house is covered with homeopathic cough medicines of various degrees of uselessness; things to suck from cough drops to Canadian mints; and broken dreams. Because I teach at a range of venues, it requires at least a half year of forward planning to carve out a week or two for my writing. All I really want to do is write, but then I have these eight jobs that get in my way and that put, well, cough medicine and chicken soup on my table.

So not only did I long ago carve out a break of over two weeks from my complicated multi-location teaching schedule (elder fitness, dance, writing), but I received the use of a super-comfy ski chalet in New Hampshire as a private writing retreat from my friends Judy and Clint. I’ve been hoarding the religious necessities (kosher salami, chala, matzos) that are unlikely to be found in “Live Free or Die” New Hampshire, and making an ambitious to-write list for my precious time away. There are items with deadlines (an erotic story about older people for Joan Price’s upcoming anthology), reworking to do (cannibalizing my unpublished manuscript for some good articles about alternative sexualities and over 50s), and further work on short stories about elders and sex and love. I’m going to be 65 in October and I have many books screaming to get onto the page. If not now, when? I only have two or three possible writing breaks per year. Losing this one is uber-frustrating.

But the fact is that I have been getting sicker and sicker, have been to see the Dr twice, and am now taking antibiotics, a rare activity for me. At night I cannot sleep because of explosive coughing attacks. Just two nights ago I ripped a stomach muscle while coughing and now I have to clutch my knee to my chest when I’m in bed coughing. Last night I had a scary experience. I nodded off at about 2:00 and then a half hour later was awoken by a mighty cough. But the cough got stuck: I couldn’t breathe in and I couldn’t breathe out. In the moments of that struggle, I worried about my Will not being in order and worried about my peeps who will be pissed off to find out that I wasn’t in NH as they thought, but stuck at home with pneumonia. That’s why I’m writing this.

Then I thought about the people so dear to me who are dealing with cancer, with MS, and with more cancer and decided to worry about them instead. And about all the people who are unable to afford the hippy cough meds – one for day and one for night, the Tylenol for the muscle strain, the co-pays for the visits to the Dr (assuming they have insurance) and the resulting medicines, the fresh orange juice, and the Enquirer scandal magazine (well, it was a present), which is just the level of reading that suits my present capacity.

Dylan and Me in Rome

Happy 71st birthday Bob Dylan. I remember seeing you and Joan at Club 47 in Harvard Sq in the mid-60s when we were all young and adorable. I was never much of a fan because you were weren’t political enough for my tastes, but I must say I got a lot of good use out of your tune “Lay Lady Lay.”

For old times’ sake we went to see your very expensive concert in the Boston area a couple of years ago. The sound sucked big-time, the music was muddy – we couldn’t distinguish one song from another, you mostly kept your back to the audience, and you never addressed a single word to us. Everyone says, “Well that’s Bob. He’s moody.” That’s not the word I would use (more like arrogant prick), but I won’t argue on your birthday.

It’s hard to understand your life choice to perpetually tour when you seem to resent performing so much. You yourself have explained it this way: “A lot of people can't stand touring but to me it's like breathing. I do it because I'm driven to do it.”

My best Dylan experience by far happened at the home in Rome of my friend Sergio. He lived in a modernized ancient building (the one on the left in the photo) overlooking the Trevi Fountain. He suggested that we dine on his balcony while watching the Americans throw their coins in the water. I have something to play you, he said, and put on Time Out of Mind. It was definitely my favorite album of yours since the old days, despite your voice going down the crapper. Happy birthday – you’ve been in my life a very long time, for better or for worse.

Here’s a recording of Till I Fell in Love with You (Time Out of Mind)
 

Film Review: Codependent Lesbian Space Alien Seeks Same

Codependent Lesbian Space Alien Seeks Same finally made it to Boston via the LGBT Film Festival and it is really the first queer comedy flick I’ve laughed aloud to in years. Apparently working with, shall we say, limited resources, writer/director Madeleine Olnek creates a race of bald-headed, over-emotional aliens who are sent to Earth to expend the excess emotions that are threatening their planet with overheating.

Stiff with candor, the alien Zoinx (Susan Ziegler) meets up with Jane (Lisa Haas), a shy, lonely stationary store clerk and the unlikely pair fall in love. In her own way, Jane too is able to be open with Zoinx, as they rub the hell out of each other’s noses in an alien sign of affection.

They do not realize that they are being stalked by two government agents, but in the end the aliens are called back to their planet and the lovers are in a quandary. They don’t want a bi-planet relationship now that they have finally found each other.

The 76 minute film is ripe with queer subtexts and in-jokes, but is I’m sure accessible to fun-lovers of any persuasion.

Madeleine Olnek ,who has only previously been involved in a few shorts, does a wonderful job of creating a shimmery spaceship and of utilizing the charms of New York City to frame her story. The acting is seamless, but Lisa Haas’ work is particularly endearing and nuanced. She seems to have few acting credits, but her portrayal of Jane is tone perfect. So too did Dennis Davis give a warm and winning performance as the frustrated senior agent.

Lately I just don’t want to see films full of violence and exploitation – there is just too much of it in real life. While I’m anything but a sci-fi fan, this was the perfect Saturday night bauble and I hope it gets greater exposure. It’s nice to know that lesbian culture is intergalactic.

Trailer: 

 

Bad Film Warning: Damsels in Distress

This movie has no plot, no action, no character development, no content, and absolutely no justification to exist. There's no eye candy or food for thought, no rhyme and certainly no reason.

I could just bemoan the loss of 2 precious hours of the twilight of my life, if I wasn't so infuriated by all the fine films by women, people of color, working class directors, and radicals that don't get funded and don't get distributed. The writer/director Whit Stillman, a pale male with a reputed film pedigree, must have downed a large steaming cup of bland while doing this one.

I went to see it with two friends at the noon showing for seniors (just $4, thank gawd) and afterwards we understood why we were the only patrons in the house.

Film Review: Miss Representation

  I know that Miss Representation is an important film and I feel bad that I didn’t love it more.  Its mission is to explore “how the media’s misrepresentations of women contribute to the under-representation of women in positions of power and influence.” And it makes a strong case. Miss Representation is getting a lot of play at a lot of film festivals as well as through the educational campaign built around it. I just question how crucial the dream of “power and influence” is to most women today.

It is an excellent would-be-mainstream vehicle, what with its high profile talking heads, top production values, and some gut-wrenching statistics: “[T]he United States is still 90th in the world for women in national legislatures, women hold only 3% of clout positions in mainstream media, and 65% of women and girls have disordered eating behaviors.” The stats on violence and abuse are, as always, a never-ending nightmare since we first exposed them in the late 60s. I’m very glad there’s a piece of celluloid trying to get all these points across. But today most women are struggling hard just to secure the basics: the glass ceiling is visible to only a very few at the top.

How did Jennifer Siebel Newsom (at left), the filmmaker, and her team approach their challenge? They began by interviewing some politicians (Condoleezza Rice, Nancy Pelosi), celebrities (Margaret Cho, Jane Fonda), TV stars (Katie Couric, Rachel Maddow), feminists (Jennifer Pozner, Gloria Steinem), a gaggle of CEOs, and a handful of unnecessarily talkative men. One of the featured men is Newsom’s husband, the Lt Governor of California, with whom she lives, according to Wikipedia, in a $2.145 million house in Kentfield, CA with “direct views of Mt Tamalpais.”  I mention this personal information as partial explanation of the existence and distribution of this film, as opposed to the many other feminist films - especially by women of color, working class or poor women, gender outlaws – that struggle painfully and at length to be made.

Miss Representation includes the views of some precocious, well-spoken young people with good teeth. It is all bracketed with Newsom’s motivation. She is having a baby, she says in the opening, and wants to make a film that exposes the incredible sexism of the media. At the end of the film, we meet her adorable little child for whom we can only wish a new and better world. The film itself hopes that each girl can dream of being, well, a CEO, a celebrity, or a politician.

This focus is lost on me. All this ambition to be women CEOs of corporations or high-ranking politicians is not a goal I can really care about. This is the point at which the film forgets that most girls will be hoping for a union job and a safe car, will be fighting to keep the schools and social security public, and will be trying to convince workplaces to offer childcare to employees.

I want to laud this documentary, but what can I do with my sense that this was made by and for privileged women? Without talking about class and race – and I mean really talking about them, not throwing in the phrase “women of color” at the end of a couple of comments – how is it possible to understand the enormous scoop of shit dumped on poor and working class woman every day? I was grateful for the perspective of a couple of commentators who talked about capitalism and about how the consolidation of media ownership following deregulation is a disaster for all but well-oiled pale males.

Why some of the men were given so much face time is a mystery, especially as some repeated their rather theoretical blah-blah more than once. In fact, the skills of a strict editor could have improved this film by shortening it by 30 minutes. Cory Booker, the mayor of Newark, New Jersey, had insightful things to say and seemed to really understand what life is like for women. Margaret Cho was good, as always, about the intersection of difference and gender. Jennifer Pozner, author of Reality Bites Back: The Troubling Truth About Guilty Pleasure TV, was spot on. She’s been providing important analysis of the misogyny of media for some years. It’s neither a surprise nor unusual that the film reflects the interests of the filmmaker and is created in her own image to some degree.

I am a talking head in another feminist film called Left on Pearl. The filmmakers and unpaid production collective have been working on it for ten years because they don’t have the political and celebrity contacts to raise sufficient money, and because their stars are the women who were actually involved in the rather revolutionary act of occupying a Harvard building in the early 70s in order to demand, among other things, a women’s center. The Cambridge Women’s Center that came into being soon after is now the longest-running such institution in the country. But Left on Pearl is not quite finished because of the difficulty of pulling in a dime for such grass-roots projects. Eventually, it hopes to be a vehicle used by schools and libraries to educate young people about the history of this feminist movement.


There were a lot of young people in the audience when I saw Miss Representation and I realized from their gasps that they were hearing some oft-repeated stats (1 in 4 women will be raped in their lifetime) and quotes (hello Pat Robinson) for the first time. It was cool to be reminded of those initial “clicks” of comprehension we all experienced when we came to understand the misrepresentation of women on every level.

Here is the trailer of Miss Representation

 

Memoir Review: Susie Bright: BIG SEX LITTLE DEATH

"Her risks are as great as her gifts." If we didn't know that already, we can read all about it in Susie Bright's brilliant memoir: BIG SEX LITTLE DEATH.

Everyone’s got their own particular curiosity about the life of Susie Bright – the author, troublemaker, sharp-penned and fearless sexpert who did so much to advance the art and understanding of nooky. Having been abroad during the “sex-wars” – which reached out and entangled me wherever I was living from the Middle East to Europe, I was gratified to finally hear, among her many crucial projects in this book, the inside story of the infamously delicious magazine "On Our Backs." Home to pioneering lesbian and other erotica – both visual and written – it became a vibrator to feminist movements everywhere, causing each of us to tremble with delight or shock.

BIG SEX LITTLE DEATH starts and ends with that complicated institution called “family” – Susie’s childhood informs her parenthood. Along the way she acts up and acts out at the intersection of justice and sexual expression. Her risks are as great as her gifts and this memoir is a tool for understanding her prolific writing, her profound principles, and her willingness to speak “dirty” words so persistently that they become the vocabulary of freedom.

Reporting Back: The NWU Panel on the ABCs of Social Networking

Here are just three of the many questions we three National Writers Union (NWU) panelists (see photo below) dealt with in Thursday’s program: “The Writer's ABCs of Facebook, Websites, Blogs, Twitter and LinkedIn”:

    1. Is Facebook an essential platform-building tool for writers, or is it a big time-suck?
    2. Can a blog become a gateway to other writing opportunities?
    3. What is the most widely used Internet application?

    Answers:
    1. Both
    2. Yes
    3. email (over 3 billion accounts)

Just to put the number of email accounts into perspective, there are 1 billion blogs, 800 million FB members, 555 million websites, 150 million Linked In subscribers, and 100 million Twitter users. (Thanks to Barry for the numbers.)

The workshop’s overflow crowd of members and non-members (see photo at end) was not unfamiliar with various online applications, but welcomed a chance to think about where to best put their limited time and energy. The three speakers honed in on the calculated use of these tools for writers.

                                    From left: Jeannette de Beauvoir, Barry Hock, Sue Katz

Barry Hock, a communications expert, talked about applying his Three Rs of communications to developing a strategic approach to these Internet programs.

• Relevance: What you’re saying must be relevant and interesting to your audience.
• Repetition: Your audience should receive your message more than once and in different ways.
• Recency: If your message isn’t relatively current, it won’t be remembered.

As a consultant who administers social networking for several organizations, Barry also explained Facebook (where you develop relationships with many people), Twitter (emphasizes immediacy) and LinkedIn (expanding your professional networks up to three degrees of separation), relating them back to the Three Rs.

Next, Jeannette de Beauvoir, widely-published author and owner of Customline Wordware, ran down the ABCs of websites, including whether to use the services of a technical person to set up your website or a point-and-click create-your-own website program. (Both have their pros and cons.) She emphasized the joys of having a single online home for your resume, your bio, and links to, and examples of, your work: everything an agent or editor might want to know. To someone who asked what to do about multiple identities, Jeannette noted that today many of us have composite professional profiles.

Finally, I talked about blogs, including the ways in which they can be a gateway to other gigs. For example, I published my book on Sarah Palin with an indie publisher who approached me after having read my daily postings about Palin on my blog, Sue Katz: Consenting Adult. Blogs also allow you to establish your identity as a writer and an expert, to showcase your writing, and to deepen your discipline and consistency as a writer. I confessed to an addiction to Facebook, and pointed out that it is an easier short-form structure, which both increased my “platform” (i.e., I seem to have more contacts on Facebook than readers of my blog), and super-reduced the amount that I blog.

All three panelists commented on the permanency of content on these platforms – with Twitter and Facebook as the most ephemeral, quickly scrolling away, and websites and LinkedIn as the most stable and enduring. Blogs are right in the middle.

In summary, I feel confident in saying that Barry Hock has the longest experience with online applications, Jeannette de Beauvoir is the most prolific writer of multiple genres, and I wore the most adorable hat.

Here's the crowd trying to register for the Panel discussion.

Dear Netroots Nation : Quit Lumping Us Together!

Dear Netroots Nation,

I am all excited to be going to Netroots Nation this June with my union, the National Writers Union. I’ve been wanting to attend your annual conference for a long time and have just now gone through the registration process.

I know this is a splendid gathering of progressives. I know I’m going to finally meet so many of my cool Facebook friends. I know I’m going to be energized, challenged – you know, all those good movement chills and fever.

But why must you slap me in the face with a dead fish during the registration process? Let me just excerpt one section of your very lengthy registration screen and you tell me if you notice something a bit askew:

What is your age?
•     24 and under
•     25 to 35
•     36 to 45
•     46 to 55
•     56 and above

Explain to me – and do you have any idea how often I’ve had to ask this? – why you break down humans in decade-long categories until you get to 55. Why is everyone over that age lumped into one category: geezers, hags, elders, seniors, old folks, aged, venerables, grey-hairs, fossils, geriatrics, boomers, ancients, old farts, gramps?

Twenty or thirty years is twenty or thirty years – whether you’re 25 looking towards 45, or you’re 80 starring back at 60. At 64, my own political perspective was formed by the civil rights movement, the anti-war (Vietnam) movement, our creation of this wave of feminism and of the queer movement, and our development of the Internetz. People 20 years older than me were shaped by the great Depression as kids and by WWII as young people.

If Netroots Nation thinks there is something to learn from age demographics and that the detail is in the nuance of one decade after another, what does it mean that you are lumping four decades of adults into one big dumpster?  If nuance is good for the goose, then it’s good for the older goose as well. I’m coming to Netroots Nation with a button that says: Give us our decades too!

Book Review: Alan Bennett writes SMUT

I was in the library request queue for weeks till I finally got my eyes on Alan Bennett’s newish book SMUT. The volume is comprised of two long short stories about sexual secrets and the flexibility of desire.

Alan Bennett is widely considered a pre-eminent British dramatist, best known for his stage plays (History Boys, The Madness of George III, The Wind in the Willows, etc) and his screenplays (Prick up Your Ears, The Madness of King George, etc).

But I fell for him when I read his only novel The Uncommon Reader, an irresistible tale about the democracy and aristocracy of a book-mobile. I just adored that very literary book with its wit and brevity.

SMUT’s two stories are very naughty – both about the underestimation of the capacity of desire, or in other words, about the fluidity of sexual identity. Bennett’s characters may never learn about the self-deception involved with misleading others, but his readers sure do get the message.

There is something about the complex role of work in an older woman’s life in “The Greening of Mrs Donaldson” that makes sense from a writer who is himself the son of a butcher.  Mrs Donaldson works as a practice patient for medical students – a job that combines symptom research with acting. She also develops an unexpected if entertaining connection with her young lodgers.

And Bennett’s own bi-sexuality probably informs the comedy of infidelity that keeps “The Shielding of Mrs Forbes” rollicking along. An arrogant dashing young man marries a woman who is obviously much less attractive than himself in the hopes that the “gratitude factor” will give him more freedoms than he can rightly expect.

Today I’ve ordered the CD audio book of Untold Stories, which Bennett began when diagnosed a half-dozen years ago with a deadly cancer that has since gone into remission. I see without surprise that there are several holds ahead of mine on the library website.

"Jobs with Justice" Celebration

I was part of the UAW contingent (as a member of the National Writers Union) at the Jobs With Justice 20th anniversary fundraiser tonight. My niece’s dear friend Jennifer Doe, JwJ’s popular Workers' Rights Organizer, pulled the large event together flawlessly. It seemed that every speaker singled her out for the support she has provided to unions and community groups. And that’s what the Jobs with Justice coalition does: they’re on the streets with groups trying to protect workers’ rights.

The event was held at the club house of the Suffolk Downs racetrack and I was taken aback when I passed their members bar:
on the bar’s door was a sign saying “No Work Clothes” – and listing forbidden items (including sweatpants and t-shirts). Does that mean that if you work in a suit and tie you can’t go in there dressed like that? I don’t think so. In fact, one of the aspects of the party that I loved was the range of couture – from sexy cocktail dresses to hoodies. Shoes were mostly sensible (you know how I hate women teetering on stilettos) and neckties rather in absentia.

There was a list of activist speakers, but the man whose presentation really stood out was Gunner Scott, Executive Director, Massachusetts Transgender Political Coalition, whom I’ve met a number of times. He opened with “mic check!” and a shout-out to the Occupy movement, which had a table-full of representatives. He talked about how the corporations were courting LGBT people and that even the vile Walmart had instituted a non-discrimination policy regarding transgendered people before Massachusetts passed such legislation. And then he pointed out that not all unions and other activist groups were equally as welcoming and it was time for some solidarity.

Praying Is Not My Preferred Route to Justice

Only one element of the evening’s program got me down. In union circle there seems to be an upsurge in religiosity and it is getting out of hand. At the JwJ dinner, one speaker asked people to fold their hands and bow their heads to ask “our lord Jesus Christ” to bless us and our struggles. Hello? The same thing had happened each morning at a recent UAW conference. What’s with the Jesus Christ bit? It’s one thing to have some kind of general non-denominational blessing at a secular union or movement meeting (as an atheist I don’t like that either); and another thing altogether to ask people to actively pray to one group’s named god. Don’t forget, there are plenty of non-Christian members of unions. As one of those non-Christians, I am offended and annoyed to be subjected to such inappropriate and presumptive praying at union events. Stop it.

Back to the otherwise great evening, which brought together Massachusetts activists to celebrate this fabulous coalition that has contributed to so many struggles and campaigns. And we heard about a number of them: from taxi drivers who are brutally exploited, to immigrants and their challenges in the workplace. I was happy to boo Bank of America and Walmart with the rest of the guests whenever given the opportunity.

I didn’t get a chance to tell her before I left, so let me add my “mazal tov!” to Jenn Doe for all that she and Jobs with Justice does.

If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get: Chapter Comcast

I have for many years been planning to write the definitive tome entitled If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get. If you know me personally, you know that I’m the scruffy queen of asking and the prince of getting, particularly when it comes to blood-sucking corporations.

I was born to this attitude, because often there was (and is) no other way to get what I need. America is a particularly fertile environment in which to ask/get, because it has traditionally been the land of “plenty”, some would say of “too much.” What used to be called, by people critical of my behavior, “mooching” – an activity that would embarrass them because of their desire to appear resplendent with plenty – is now called “recycling” and is very much in favor.

Like I say, I’ve got a book’s worth of opinion, theory, and anecdotes on this subject – with a surprising pile of little victories along the way. By telling you about Comcast today, I hope I’m pushing myself into documenting these experiences, because often such a coup is the only scrap of good news I can possibly dig out of this crappy period we’re living in. The justice of being able to return an item despite misplacing the receipt is one level of asking and getting. But sometimes we can really make a point, like the time, earlier in my ask/get career, when my posse and I were in Amsterdam during EuroPride week in 1994. At the entrance to Rijksmuseum there was a pricing sign with a special low charge for families. “This is my family,” I said, pointing to my girlfriend, my best friend and his boyfriend, and three assorted dyke friends. It worked.

Before the last presidential elections, in the 60 days between Sarah Palin’s elevation to vice-presidential candidate and the elections themselves, I wrote a book called Thanks But No Thanks: The Voters Guide to Sarah Palin. I spent 28 days and nights researching and writing it, while my editor Barry Hock edited it as I went, and my publisher Harvard Perspectives Press prepared it chapter-by-chapter for publication. We then had just a few weeks in which to promote and sell it before the elections. It was such an intense experience for all of us and such an immersion in all things Palin for me, that I never wanted to write about her again.

Tomorrow night is the much-touted HBO movie “Game Change” in which Julianne Moore and her make-up people play Palin. For some reason I want to see it but, try as I might, I have failed to get myself invited over to any friend’s house with HBO.

So I called Comcast and befriended the woman on the other end of the line. This is not hard to do – and is one of the secrets of getting what you ask. I told her I had a crazy request but that I’d bet it wouldn’t be the craziest she got today – which is why she gets paid the “big bucks.” She laughed and when I told her I needed HBO for tomorrow – and I told her why – she dug around until she found a three-month freebie and gave it to me. She wasn’t able to find me a freebie for HD (which I refuse to pay for), but she said to try back in a month to see if something pops up.

These rapacious companies have all sorts of freebies and usually they only offer them to you if they’ve screwed up (like a technician arriving late for an appointment or your shows have been pixilating for a week) or if you’re in a lather about something (a rude call center operator or your cable failed during the Super Bowl) and they want to make nice. But the call center people have the option of offering it whenever they feel it is appropriate to make a gesture – and being charmed by them and interested in them often constitutes a good reason.

It probably helps if you have a good record of paying your bills and have been with them for any length of time. Several times over the years I have had my cell phone service through Verizon, I’ve passed my minute limit close to the end of the month. I’ve called them and each time I was able to establish a rapport – and these call center folks take so much abuse that a nice word is a major thrill – they would find a little courtesy package that allowed them to give me some free minutes – 100, maybe 200.

So if you don’t ask, you won’t get, but if you are intending to ask, do it with candor and good humor to increase your chances of success. And now I must interrupt this blog to go check out what HBO daytime TV looks like. I will probably rue the day I gained this bauble.

Dance Review: Circa's CIRCA

Circa’s CIRCA is the incomparable movement concoction being presented until March 4th by the Celebrity Series at Paramount Theater. This thrilling Australian troupe delivers a unique form of circus performance that is part dance, part physical comedy, and a large part acrobatics.

This review appears in EdgeBoston.com.

The convolutions of their limbs, the otherworldly distortion of balance, and the profound strength of these dancers make for exhausting viewing. It is impossible to look away or to relax in the face of such dangerous beauty.

Trained in a mixture of gymnastics and circus skills, these muscular entertainers flaunt their flesh even as they take pratfalls and inject body wit. What a relief to see them not so much challenge as ignore traditional dance limitations: men lift men; women lift men; the physicality has neither gender nor size constraints.

Think of most other professional dance companies: the guys have clean-cut haircuts and smoothly shaved faces and the women’s hair is uniformly pulled back into smoothed buns above Angelina-Jolie-skinny bodies.

In "Circa," we see seven distinct personalities: Scott Grove the butchest guy wears a topknot; Jarred Dewey sports a pretty, asymmetrical hairstyle; a couple of the men have facial hair; and Emma McGovern dances with a bald head. Valerie Doucet has glorious sturdy thighs and Michelle Obama arms.

Their circus skills are not dependent on the expensive, bulky accoutrements of rivals like Cirque du Soleil. In fact, all their equipment probably fits in a suitcase that an airline wouldn’t charge extra for. They convert a simple 12" silver ring into a contortion act in which a muscular man turns himself inside out as he climbs into and escapes its bounds. A trapeze, a rope, and a couple of ribbons hung from the ceiling give these performers a chance to stop our heartbeats as they dangle by their heels or plunge unfettered towards the floor. What Emma McGovern does with a red rubber band is worth the price of the ticket.

 

Mostly they reinterpret the human body, turning feet into hands, hands into feet, fingers into legs, and bodies into jump ropes. Their approach is unhurried, considered, and intensely creative. As they fling themselves into each other’s arms to be twirled or tossed around, the profound level of trust becomes a bond the audience must buy into. With a gentle tap one dancer will move his own knee into an insane angle or tip over another dancer who is balancing on her forearm. The biggest dancer Scott Grove uses deep breathing to blow up his body into an astonishing parody of the Schwarzenegger pose in a piece called "Tumble."

The music is a mix of lyrical French and unobtrusive atonality. The one loud English-language song "Perhaps" is a high-energy moment. One delicious interactive performance, focused on the dancer’s hands, makes its own soundtrack by convincing the audience to snap its fingers. Some pieces are performed in absolute silence, with only the contractions of the dancers’ muscles and the interplay of their bodies dominating the experience.

And speaking of dominance, one piece named "Heels" is outright erotic; its kinky narrative conveys a moving domme/sub experience. Emma McGovern dons sparkly red stilettos to step on Jarred Dewey’s relaxed, accepting body. Perching on his thighs, his shoulders, and his back, she truly walks all over him to his deep satisfaction.

Special Kudos to artistic director Yaron Lifschitz and to the lighting director Jason Organ for providing pools of light with which the dancers played. In 75 uninterrupted minutes, which ended in an extended standing ovation, Circa’s "CIRCA" took Boston’s dance lovers into their exceptional physical and artistic world.

Circa’s CIRCA runs through March 4, 2012 at the Paramount Theatre, 559 Washington Street, Boston, MA. For more information, visit the Celebrity Series website.

 

 

 

OCCUPY THE OSCARS: A LAST GASP VIEW

I have a posse who gathers together at my place for my single annual party to watch the Academy Awards. These are friends from different parts of my life – dance, union, justice struggle, work, the old days – who have jelled into an Oscars machine over many years. Here’s my takeaway from the night.

GETTING CRAP OFF MY CHEST
I wasn’t one of those who moaned that Billy Crystal was too old and too old school to be dragged back to replace the originally scheduled Eddie Murphy (who quit in solidarity when his producer buddy was kicked off the Oscars for homophobic bigotry). In fact, I looked forward to Crystal’s brand of Jewish liberal humor – sometimes he really nails it.

But why oh why did he dredge up his blackface imitation of Sammy Davis Jr., a schtick he used to do in the 1980s on Saturday Night Live - albiet with Sammy's blessing apparently? How many people even remember Sammy Davis Jr. (on left) and how many are aware of the role of blackface in Hollywood? In Billy’s mind, he was injecting Sammy into the tribute to “Midnight in Paris,” in which lots of celebrity artists were brought back from the dead. It was tasteless.

And then there were the very personal “fatty” jokes. It was inexplicably boorish and unacceptable to humiliate an Oscar nominee in front of a global audience, or anyone or anywhere else for that matter. Under-eating seemed like a much more prevalent issue in that crowd – and not because of the poverty that is damaging 25% of American children. Shame on you, Billy.

As for the political, topical jokes, ahhh, I must’ve missed them. While it is true that Billy made us laugh, here at my “do,” it is also the case that we are a group that likes to laugh together. He did not make us guffaw until we choked – as Whoopi has done in the past and Ellen did the year she hosted. We had adored Ellen’s work that night and to this day I can’t figure out why she was panned.

Anyway, back to 2012. There was a lot of ageist garbage about Christopher Plummer too, especially on the Red Carpet where the dim lot of interviewers seemed more excited about his being four score than about his talent. How annoying. I missed the moment when he got a little testy with some such Red Carpet mic-thruster.

“THE YEAR OF THE LADIES”
Then there were all these male commentators going on and on about this being the “year of the ladies.” Do me a favor. Look at what the top roles for women were about: suffering race/class exploitation; being raped; whitewashing the life of a despised union-busting rightwing leader; living a miserable life as a cross-dresser; playing Marilyn. Talk to me about “the year of the ladies” when a woman is playing the general manager of a big-league baseball team – based on real life.

FASHION
Angelina Jolie’s disturbing pose when she was presenting an Oscar – she awkwardly thrust her leg out of her skirt slit – was so weird that one of the guys who received that Oscar stood in comic imitation of her stance. Everyone later had an opinion on it, but why weren’t folks talking about the real visual anomaly: her terrifying skinniness. Her arms were wasted and her skull-like-face loomed large above a reduced body. I found all the talk about her beauty grotesque.

Viola Davis won the too-gorgeous-for-words award hands-down (not to mention the prize for the buffest arms). She was not the only one to wear her hair naturally, but she was also the most photographed. Allison Samuels wrote an interesting piece called “Why Viola Davis Ditched the Wig at the Oscars,” which talks about how the “star's bold statement blew the lid off the complicated politics of black women’s hair.” Chris Rock (a presenter) grew out his Afro 70s style and made some funny, insightful comments (photo at left), but singer Esperanza Spalding’s halo proved that size does matter! (see her photo below)

I was glad they didn’t excise J-Lo’s areola which many of us with nipple-radar spotted immediately. I see that she issued a denial on American Idol when teased about it, but hey, I’ve always strongly believed that if men can show their breasts without incurring criminal charges, women should be able to as well.

All the nasty chatter about how old-fashioned and unchallenging it was to re-draft Billy Crystal could better have been focused on a main aspect of the Oscars culture. Gender fashion stereotypes are more rigid every year. Look at how uniformly everyone was dressed. What a snoozefest. Why do all the women have to wear prom dresses? Remember in the 70s when you’d see an occasional short skirt, a pair of slacks, or something vaguely cutting edge? Now it’s all just full-length, girlish fabrics puddling at one’s stilettos. Any differences were in quantity (more sparkle, two-shoulder drape instead of one) not quality. Yawn. Where was the leather onesy? The woman in a tuxedo? The guy in a tutu?

THE JC PENNY COMMERCIALS
I’m the kind of person who, if I can’t TIVO a show in order to fast forward the commercials, then I mute them. My crowd had no idea that JC Penny was going to introduce a gaggle of their surprisingly entertaining ads starring Ellen. Go to google to catch up if you missed the whole controversy in which right-wing Xtians tried to strong-arm JC Penny into dumping the queer, but JC Penny wasn’t having any of it, and then Ellen talked about it straight up on her TV show. The ads are a hoot and in my house they were probably the highlight of the evening.

THE RATINGS
So ancient Billy Crystal doesn’t appeal to the youth demographic, eh? Remember last year’s youth-appeal MCs – Mr Comatose and Ms Five-Hour-Energy drink? Here are the comparative figures:

 “The Nielsen Co. estimated Monday that 39.3 million people watched the Oscars on ABC Sunday night, up from the 37.9 million viewers during the much-panned 2011 show where James Franco and Anne Hathaway shared hosting duties.”

I don’t have a horse in the Academy Awards race other than the desire to be entertained. The reason I don’t talk here about the winners and losers is because I don’t care that much about the Academy’s choices. This year the LA Times backed our long-held assumption with hard research in their piece “Oscar voters overwhelmingly white, male.” This may explain why the fabulous film “Pariah” was not nominated, not to mention my favorite film of the year, Almodovar’s “The Skin I Live In.” I watched all the awards shows this year – from the Golden Globes to the BAFTA (British Oscars) to the Independent Spirit Awards. But I only have my party posse over for this grand one. I try to keep the expectations for the show low and let my chicken salad and techina be the stars.

TRAVELOGUE: To Maine with Tomer

Although Tomer has been living in the States for a couple of years, we have only met a few times briefly and not alone. So we decided to use the long weekend to see a part of the country he hasn’t before seen: the southern coast of Maine.

I have known Tomer since he was my Tae Kwon Do student in Israel at age 8, but at 17 he insisted that we convert our relationship from teacher/student to friends and that’s how it has been ever since. Now he is doing a prestigious post-doc at the National Institute of Health in D.C. and in a year he will be taking up a professorship at Haifa University.

He flies in on Friday and we set out on Saturday, driving up 95 until the first tourist info rest-stop, where we switch to Route 1 to drive along the shore, making my obligatory stop at Leeward Landing Thrift Store where I only find a good book and a couple of greeting cards. Last time I was there was in the summer with my London friend Sue O’Sullivan. Then I bought a stunning but stained pink silk jacket because Sue knew how to eradicate the stain. Tomer stayed in the car playing with his iPhone. He does not lust after objects. He used up all his shopping hormone when much younger.

This is such a strangely mild winter with the trees in an uncharac-

teristically long period of nakedness – wearing neither their leaves nor their snow couture. So when we thought about destinations, I opposed the mountains. Everything flora looks emaciated and brittle, washed out and weak.

But the coast of Maine is gorgeous no matter what the weather with its lumbering black rocks, blue water, and mix of pebbly or sandy beaches. We are aiming for Ogunquit via the coastal route, but stop at Stonewall Kitchens (photo on left), on the recommendation of my friend Stephanie, for coffee and a scone. Known for their jams, we spend a bit too much time at their tasting tables trying to choose among the sour cherry, the seedless raspberry, and their classic blueberry preserves.

We stop at none of the wonderful historic sites of York, like the old Gaol, because it is winter and most tourist sites are shut. It is the coast we long for and by following the Shore Road we are treated to some rocky delights. Our longest stop is at the Nubble Lighthouse, reputed to be the most photographed lighthouse in Maine (photo at left). There is something about the tumble of huge, dark Maine rocks that reminds me of the Irish coast. The seas are calm throughout our weekend so instead of the thrilling white water of stormy days we have the bluest, placid calm. It is an acceptable trade-off.

We climb around the rocks at Nubble to ensure some dramatic photographs, and stop on our way out to get a shot together at a Christmas tree (photo on left) constructed from lobster traps, teddy bears and red ribbons. I’ve never seen a xmas tree I admired more.

In Ogunquit we stay in a spacious double-queen room at The Admiral’s Inn. Other than a glitch in their wireless provision and some young people partying in the halls at all hours, it is a clean, friendly and reasonable accommodation. Many Ogunquit restaurants are closed, but a 10-minute stroll through town leads us to one with a triple menu: bar food, restaurant food, and a bistro menu which seems to be a cheaper alternative with smaller portions – i.e. the kind of portions you would get elsewhere in the world, and quite appropriate for travelers who don’t want doggie bags.

The morning is clear and cold and we pull down coats over our sweatshirts and set off to the Marginal Way, as people have been doing for 85 years. Is there a more splendid walk? The sun is so strong we could’ve come out with a layer or two less. Not a single cloud dulls the perfection of the sea. It is high tide so the water-covered rocks below add a shadow effect to the blue while the wet rough black rocks lining the shore shine with particular drama. There are 39 benches along the way with bronze plaques representing a loving memorial gesture and we stop to see the especially precious views at rest.

It’s a magic mile from Ogunquit to Perkins Cove, where we are planning to have a coffee, but the usual, immediate establishments are closed for the season and we walk deep into the Cove to find the one café open in winter. While it costs us $13 for two hot drinks and a croissant, we get to use the bathroom – a privilege not to be treated lightly during winter in this area. At first we sit outside (photo at left) over the Cove, but that becomes too chilly so we huddle inside in the warmth.

Back at the hotel the well-meaning clerk spends an inordinate amount of our time wrestling with Google maps to give us an insider’s little-known seaside route between Ogunquit and Portland, our next Maine destination. At a certain point, surely well past the 30-minute mark, I have an ominous feeling that I’m going to be standing here so long that I miss signing up for Medicare next year and I say, “I’m going to the car,” and do so. Eventually Tomer joins me with a print-out, but the route turns out to be a torturous exploration of ranch-home suburbs that are closer to the sea than, say, Rt. 95, but not close enough to actually see water. Another hour or so of my life down the drain and I insist that we just get on a road that will actually take us to Portland.

Tomer got us a great deal at the waterfront Hilton, but they don’t let you into the room until 4:00 and they make you pay $15 to park your car, not to mention tips to the person who parks it and the person who returns it to you – from the lot about three feet away from the door. We go for a walk in the historic district, but my feet are mounting a severe rebellion. We already did the whole Marginal Way and back, they complain, what’s with pounding these city streets just hours later? It might not be so painful if, in fact, we actually find the supposedly exciting exhibition we are looking for, but alas, we don’t.

The brightest moment of the afternoon is running into very dear Boston friends of mine Gail and Donna. (I was best man at their wedding.) They are, it transpires, on their annual winter getaway to Portland. However, they are in a rush to catch the three-hour ferry around the islands and we promise to meet up for dinner.

Once we all assemble in the lobby, we stroll to a massive ship restaurant that is a further walk than my feet consent to, only to be told that we have a 75 minute wait to get seated. Gail and Tomer volunteer to return back up the street to see if what turns out to be a seafood greasy spoon has a free table and they do. So Donna and I make our way back towards the hotel to join them at Gilbert’s Chowder House where we are served on flimsy paper plates and given the cheapest plastic cutlery to deal with our food. Tomer’s lobster is decidedly insulted by its paper setting (photo at left). The waitress is sweet, the company unparalleled, and the antacid plentiful.

Monday morning Tomer, Gail, and Donna are as one about having the $12 breakfast at the Hilton. (Of course it’s over $15 what with the taxes and whatnot.) I personally want a scone from the lovely bakery next door, but the majority rules. To ensure that we get our money’s worth, the first thing I do is secret a couple of bagels in my bag for lunch, along with butter, cream cheese, a couple of fruits, and a muffin. Then I get started on eating a pig-farm’s worth of bacon, piles of fruit salad, pancakes, toast, scrambled eggs and hot water, into which I drop my own tea bags.

My stomach and I spend the rest of the morning in the room while Tomer walks and swims. We check out, hide our bags in their baggage room, and tootle over for a lovely 45-minute Casco Bay ferry ride to and from Peaks Island (above), the closest one to Portland. It is a utilitarian vessel into the middle of which vehicles are loaded (photo at left), while we people sit in two tatty long side-rooms above. Tomer and I spend the trip to the island out on the deck. It’s a cool diversion for just $4.30 for him and half that for senior fare.

Our last tourist moment is a side trip to Fort Williams Head Light in Cape Elizabeth, also the most photographed lighthouse in Maine, we are told. Apparently the lighthouses in Maine attract the cameras. This lighthouse is, in fact, astoundingly beautiful and in a setting to rival the Marginal Way. It was built in 1787 and is surrounded by 90 acres of park. We arrive during the last hour of light and so the cold is prohibitive, but the former Keepers' Quarters – now a museum that is closed for winter – is an architectural pearl and the lighthouse itself a perfect specimen. It is just the visual to wrap up our trip to the southern Maine coast.

All photos by Tomer Shechner