Would You Like a Steaming, Hot cup of TRUTH????

Look, look-- Apparently, HOT-lanta can handle my truth:

This photo was sent to me by a Southern white woman as she made her own sojourn to her homeland of South Carolina. This cafe can be found in the Atlanta international airport. I didn't see that last time I was there (though, I was so oppressed and weary after my travels that I wouldn't be surprised if it slipped right by my blurry eyes).

Is this cafe supposed to be my 40 acres? Where's my cut of the earnings from this place?! You know they've got to be some steady cash flow, as all things at airports cost a million dollars.

I think we all need to go there and demand some reparations!

Tailor-Made...for ME?!

Y'all, I am on the plantation on Christmas Eve? I don't think this is what the baby Jesus would have wanted.

Luckily, I'm the only one here, so I can blog with abandon. It's funny how I tend to handle more personal biz-nass on office time than I do when I'm not here. I actually plan to come back later in the week to get some essential photocopying done. Is that wrong?

Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering about the status of THE GIVER. Unfortch, I may be briefly silenced, for it turns out he is indeed a savvy internet stalker. Apparently, a name like Sojourner "you can't handle the" Truth is very "funny and interesting," and something, "you don't forget when told of it in passing." The Giver has found the blog. He has read the tales (luckily, not the the tale of how he earned his nickname), and I think the blacktress may have to silence her voice. It's just like a white male to keep me down.

Here's what I can let you know: the date went well....I think. It began with me getting him good and tipsy at Butai, where Special K pours dranks with abandon. Butai is my Saturday tradition, beginning around 5pm and ending whenever I have a good enough reason to leave. During our idle chat, I received a text about a party in Brooklyn. While this was not planned, I was thankful for it, as it made me out to be very popular and important.

We then went to try and see Juno, because nothing sets the mood like a story of teen pregnancy. Surprisingly, other people had the same idea, because it was too crowded and we had to see a later show. As we walked out, I explained how awkward I was (this was during one of my many ramblings that began due to nervousness), and he said, "I know.... I read your blog."
As Scooby Doo would say, "Ruh-Roh!" He found me out! He knows I'm slightly insane, mildly militant, and have gone out with randoms!

Cue more incessant babbling. I swear, he made a black girl blush several times-- which you know is tough with this blacktress.

We then went to Crocodile Lounge (I think you all know my feelings on pizza and skee ball), where I drank red wine (cause I'm classy) and flirted like the shameless schoolgirl I am. It seemed for some strange reason he was still drawn to me, so I figured I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We found seats in the theater, trying to avoid sitting next to unattractive people (you know ugly is contagious!), and I made my smooch move. I mean, I was thinking about it and I figured if I just got in there I'd feel slightly less cray.
It worked.

We then tucked in to watch the movie, which ended up being the bestest thing ever. Actually, while I'm singing male praises, let me address one man in particular:
Dear Michael Cera, you awkward, gangly teen-- I am so drawn to your confusion. I identify with your loss for words and statement of the obvious. You ask if you can makeout with people, much in the way I do. You wear short-shorts, and I can almost see your junk, but I try not to look because you're too young for me...and because I'm waiting for Harry Potter to cross these shores. If, for some reason, HP and I end up having trouble with immigration services, it's you and me, boo.

Anyway, The Giver gave me a little hand-on-leg action during the film, which I turned into hand-holding action, and for the next 90 minutes I was totally swooning over the romantic subplot, my girl-crush Jennifer Garner, and the Giver beside me. We then hit up Chickpea for some vegemetarianish* delights. He got me some hummus-- holla at a middle-eastern playa-- and we chatted as he enjoyed his first falafel! Tenderness! You know blacktresses just bring out the "adventurous side" in white men.

We hit up another random bar--where I just had water!-- and talked a bit. While shooting the shit, he said, "Yeah, I tried dating two girls at once, but that was drama. I'm all about monogamous relationships."

He dropped the M-bomb. Granted, it was in no way connected to me, and probably means he's missing his ex-GF or something else unsavory, but the word itself just makes me tingly....down there. I mean, drop an M-bomb, and I am done and done. If this blog has shown one thing, it's that it's not only hard out there for a pimp, but it's hard out there for a blacktress trying to find a winter spoon! It's been a rough 007, and it's time shit stopped being cray and started getting real. This body ain't getting any younger, people!!!

Anyway, I clearly went back to his house, to get in the spirit of giving--holla! And I think he had me at morning eggs and bagels. I mean, a can-do man who will hook up some protein on a chilly winter's morning is one to callback, you know?

He is now off in his homeland for the holidays....where one can only hope the white fields of Ohio (in more ways than one) make him long for the blacktress. Until then, I will just have to entertain myself with my gays and my gals.

Um, guys, if I don't hear from him while he's gone does this mean the whole thing was in my head?

* I know that's not a word.

I'm Awkward

Things Not to Say When the Guy You Slept With Calls You to Make a Date:

6. I can’t really talk right now-- I’m watching the season finale of “I Love New York.”

5. You know, I think you should be on “I Love New York." You’re very urban. You remind me of Tailor Made.

4. I have three leaks in my ceiling.

3. When he arranges a date for Saturday on Monday, you say: “It’s good you called so far in advance; I book fast. I’m very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany….. um, have you ever seen Anchorman?”

2. At the end of the conversation: “I’m going to hold my breath until Saturday!”
He says: “Um, why?”
You respond: “Until our date! I mean, what will I wear?! The possibilities are endless!”

1. I blogged about you.

And it is for this reason I had to take down my previous post, extolling his virtues as a giver. Just in case he is anywhere near as savvy an internet stalker as I am, he can't find out that I gave the world a little TMI. I'll repost once I have him firmly in my clutches, and he can separate the ACT from the BLACKtress.

How Much Do I Really Hate New York?

Dear Massa—I mean, Reader,

Let me be the first to apologize for my lack of bloggery as of late. I know it is my duty—nay, god-given right—to put my thoughts on the page as only a blacktress can. However, I’ve found that since the beginning of my 47th year I haven’t had the time to sit down and collect my thoughts. Things have been cray. In fact, one could even say I’m the captain of the S.S. Cray-Cray.

Firstly, I am suffering from serious black mama drama. It is time Sojourner faced her own TRUTH and find her own apt. I cannot let the co-op board (aka THE MAN) slow me down, and I must accept that my current situation is similar to the plantations from which I fled, shouting “Ain’t I a Woman?!” I cannot take steps back at this age. I must move onward and upward, and once again seek out the freedom I’ve longed for.

As for the quest for the winter spoon: it is over. Mission aborted. Like the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, my heart has been bombed into bits by unpleasant “romantic situations”—the Imperial Japanese Navy of evil men (thought none of them were Japanese). All I have for comfort now is I Love New York. Watching this show reminds me that, even on my worse day, at least I have a functioning brain, the ability to tell right from wrong, and no STDs (I took my test—I passed!).

New York is down to the wire, with only two men to choose from: Tailor Made and Buddha. Now, I personally am glad to see Punk go, as he needed to stop slumming and living this lie and do something with his Harvard education (it’s his kind of behavior that stops Negroes from having nice things).
I mean, the moment Punk’s mother came into the house I knew that was the end of him. Look at her:

First of all, why is his mother 112 years old? And why is she hideous? I was shocked by this turn—TV doesn’t get any more real than this.

I believe my favorite response to Punk’s mom came from a viewer who wrote to Yahoo:
She looks really frail and her mannerisms remind me of my some of the stroke victims I worked with at the hospital. Her mouth is always open and her glasses are so thick. She also doesn't make eye contact.

This would have to be true. As New York screamed and tripped, and as Sister Patterson waved her weave about and stabbed out the Entertainer’s eyes with her fake nails, Punk’s mother sat stoically, possibly passing a stone, looking bewildered and mildly frightened…. Then again, her wide eyes could just look that way because of her large bifocals.

I know it's wrong to take pleasure from the misfortunes of others. But I can't help it. With Massa-Mama breathing down my neck, my va-jay-jay confused and lonely, and the housing market rougher than a back alley in Detroit, I seek solace wherever I can find it.

Judge not lest ye be judged.

DRANKS FOR 2007!

So, this just in:

The top 10 lists for 2007 have made their way to my desk. From TVs, to movies, to downloads, to websites, I've got the pdf file of what was hot and what was not.

While many of the titles were to be expected, my heart actually leapt at one chart-topper:
List of Top 10 Most Digitally Downloaded Songs
10----Something
9-----Something
8-----Something
7-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!

List of Top 10 Most Played Songs on the Radio
1-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!


YES! I'm just so happy that T-Pain's misspelling behind is finally getting the attention he deserves. Not only is drank my favorite word (closely followed by tooken), but this man has given more hope to ugly fools the world over. I mean, look at him:
He is not a looker. He might even qualify as a hot mess. But he buys DRANKS. These, for those of you who don't know, are even more potent than regular alcoholic beverages, and often inspire pole-dancing. He even says that he wants you to "get drunk and forget what we did"-- something that only a potent drank can cause.

Birthdays With Artists

Below is an excerpt from a call I received on Friday, 12/7/07-- the day of my birth. I was too busy not working and being lazy to post this at the time, but I've decided it still deserves to be shared. After all, my pain is nothing more than your reason for laughter. And for that I am proud.

OldMan: Are you in the editorial department?

SoTru: Yes, I am.

OM: Well, I want to talk to you about a problem I had and how I solved it. (yay for me!)
Okay, what was that?

OM: Well, my wife and I live in an apartment house, and we have a patio. A lot of people put plants on their patios for decoration, and it’s very nice. Well, we don’t have any water on our patio. (um, who does?)

SoTru: Oh, I see. (I’m still unclear on the problem)

OM: My wife and I would literally have to drag water from the kitchen onto the patio to water plants. (He says this really slowly, annunciating every syllable, so I can understand the magnitude of his problem. I say nothing. I still don’t get it.) So, I came up with this—are you listening?

SoTru: Yes, I am sir. How did you solve this problem?

OM: Well, you know plasticize board? Well, it’s that thick board you see politicians’ signs on—you know, like, on lawns saying “VOTE FOR KERRY!”

SoTru: Ah, yes. That.

OM: Well, I covered it with waterproof paint and I placed cardboard cutouts on it. I have an animal series, and I took horses, cows, reindeer* and pasted them onto the board. I mean, this board lasts for forever and a day. And I put them out on our patio, and it really solved a big problem for us. So, what I’m wondering is this: would this be something that would be interesting to your readers?

(Wait, is he drunk? Is he serious? First of all, I don’t see how not having water on a patio was cured by cardboard cutouts on a board. And even if so, doesn’t he have a grandchild who could make him cutouts of horses? I’m confused.)

SoTru:Um, no I don’t think so. I think that would be better suited to a crafts magazine; we normally focus on traditional realism.

The lessons to be gleaned from this conversational nugget are threefold:

1. Always screen calls in the workplace. Unless you work in the field of organ harvesting and donation, or late-breaking news, there is nothing that can't wait until you decide to call back.
2. The elderly have a lot of free time on their hands, and are too weak to carry water. Please be nice to the next geriatric you see, and offer to carry their goods.
3. No problem in life can't be solved with a little plasticize board.

I don´t think I´m Lovin´

I honestly don´t know what can be said about this video. I just need someone else to see what I saw yesterday on my new favorite channel full of German and other foreign music videos. It´s called "I´m lovin... LRHP." LRHP stands for Little Red Hot Pants.
Has this boy´s balls dropped yet?

Lost in Translation

I am being oppressed by my own body. Here I am, in Barcelona, and I am deathly ill. I arrived at about 2pm and went to my hotel. After settling in, I went to a nearby pharmacy to get meds. Seeing as I didn´t know what anything meant, I went to the pharmacist and explained my symptoms in Spanish. "No sé que necesito. ¿Que Ud. cree?" I asked her politely. She gave me something or the other that I was to dissolve in water and drink completely.

I felt quite accomplished, having found medical attention in a foreign land. I took a walk around, went to grab some tapas (my jam and my jump-off), then returned to my hotel to medicate and sleep. While I waited for the disgusting medication to set in, I watched a show called "Amar en Tiempos Revueltos," which I figured out after about 20 minutes was an hour-long period drama set in 1920s/1930s España. It was about 5:15 pm when I started to fade-- just when Julieta told Alejandro that their love affair had to end.

Cut to 5am the next day. I am awake in my hotel room, after a lengthy 12-hour siesta.

Unsure of what to do, I turned on the boob tube, in hopes of watching another Spanish jam. I turned to channel 10, which was showing music videos-- in English! Missing my native tongue, I eagerly watched Sean Paul, Christina Aguilera, and Timbaland as my mind came to.

Suddenly, the television cut to a commercial, and I discovered I was watching a Dutch station (these hotels are so multi-culti). The next video was something foreign, and I was too weakened from illness to change the channel, so I watched. What proceeded to assault my eyes is unlike anything I have ever seen. Still physically oppressed, I dragged myself from my bed to the hotel computer to share this with you, gentle reader.

The group is called FETTES BROT, and they are a German hip hop group. According to Wikipedia, " ´Fettes Brot´is German for FAT BREAD. Although "fat" is a German slang term for "excellent", the phrase has no meaning at all. The band took the name from a fan who called them "Fettes Brot" after an early gig, which was probably meant as a compliment, but the members considered it so bizarre that they took it as the name for their new group. Fettes Brot's longevity has meant that it is sometimes referred to as "Hamburg's hip-hop-dinosaurs" by its members."

Um, hip-hop dinosaurs? Did they forget who they were appropriating? The title of the song I had the pleasure of viewing was "Nordisch by Nature"!
I kid. you. not.
Do not confuse this jam with the early 90s group "Naughty by Nature" and their hit jam OPP. Looks like Fettes Brot got down with some other people´s property!

For once, I do not think my skills as a woman of color and writer can do this song justice. I will simply embed the video so you can see for yourselves, and experience what I thought was another fever-induced hallucination.
It wasn´t.

Brown Girl, Brown Girl, Where Are You?

That was the title of a craigslist post I found, from a White man seeking a Black woman. Only now do I think I can mildly relate to the sentiment.

It´s about 9:30 in the mañana, and I´m leaving Tarragona and heading to Barcelona. I´m going to be by my lonesome for three días, but I´m sorta excited to get down to some real touristy stuff, walk on bustling streets and risk being robbed-- oh yeah, and I´d like to see some more negroes.

There are very few Black folks in northern Spain in general-- there are 0 in Tarragona. Everywhere I´ve been, people look at me like I´m either lost or about the jack something. Esther, my model for womanhood and wifery, says that people are just looking because I´m "muy guapa"-- very pretty-- not so much. They are looking at me because they only see me on la tele!

I wondering if they can handle the TRUTH of Sojourner in the flesh. It makes me a little uncomfortable--especially when it comes from older people, who make no bones about being all up in my George Foreman (grill). But I know that us Negroes stick to the major cities and major spots, and tiny beach towns like Tarragona aren´t our cup of tea (you know we don´t like beaches-- why get my hair wet? You know how long it took to construct this lie?!). And, unfortunately, it´s quite possible to live in this mundo and never see a real life brown person. HOT MESS!

So, I eagerly await my three days in Barcelona, where I can blend in, eat tapas without being eye fucked, and possibly get my wallet stolen. I´m about to spread la verdad all up and down Las Ramblas-- and hopefully I´ll meet some foreign hotties to keep me company. I´m thinking of trolling some of the high-end hostels for children of a foreign diginitaries who are trying to get away from it all.

¿Como se dice en español, WINTER SPOON?

Have you ever been sitting at a dinner table at 10pm with a mother, father, and 16-year-old daughter, when all of a sudden everyone starts yelling really loudly in a language you can´t really understand? The bits you do get involve some sort of dinner with the girl´s coworkers and the repeated use of the word "youth."


That happens to me alot.

Or have you ever been watching "Family Guy"-- only it´s called Padre de la Familia-- and Lois doesn´t have the annoying voice, Peter sounds like a mildly retarded weatherman, and Stewie lacks any semblance of being an English dandy?


Is that just me?


I really love España, but sometimes feel like I´m in a bizarro world with really good food.


Being here sorta reminds me of my time with the deaf. Like having to use ASL constantly, being in España requires that I speak "the native language"-- which is really hard! And, in the native language I lack much of my personal flair and sass. Por ejemplo: everyone I met yesterday thought I was 16 years old-- the same age as the cousin I´m staying with.
Sojourner, how can you have a 16 year old Spanish cousin? you may be wondering. Let me explain:
My mother got married to her latin lover, and he has a brother. This man has a wife and daughter, so by marriage, we´re all one big, happy, familia.

Anyway, back to me being a Spanish teen: I think the reason everyone thinks I´m young is that I have the vocabulary of a toddler and use a lot of large, silly gestures to make myself understood. You know, like, rubbing my tummy when I´m hungry, or physically shaking when I want someone to know I´m cold. Everyone thinks I´m hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. I tried to explain the concept of a "winter spoon"-- cuchara del invierno-- but it just wouldn´t work. you can´t even make "spoon" a verb over here, they think I´m cray!

But let me stop complaining. Me encanta España! Things I love:
- They get thirty vacation days a year, IN ADDITION to holidays.
- All their medication comes in larger sizes. While I normally have to take 3 advil in America to experience relief, one ibuprofen pill-- the size of a horse tranquilizer-- knocks out my pain here in Tarragona.
- Paella
- It´s almost December and it´s 60 degrees during the dia.
- SPANISH WIFEYS

Seriously, all I want for Christmas is a Spanish wifey. They work more than slaves who´ve forgotten their free, and they do it all with a smile. I use as my example Esther, la madre de la casa. Here´s Esther´s typical day:
5 am: wake up. Put in a load of laundry, cook food so that when her daughter comes home from school she can have her late lunch, shower, and dress.
7am: wake up her daughter, get her some breakfast, get ready to go.
8:00 - 6:30: go to work.
6:30-9:00pm: come home, dry and fold laundry, cook elaborate dinner.
9:30-10:30: eat dinner, relax for a minute.
11:00pm: go to bed.

Um, hello?! How does she do it?! When does she have time to wipe her own ass, let alone relax?! And she´s the absolute nicest person I´ve ever met, refusing to let me help her with anything, offering to do my laundry, and asking what I want for lunch and dinner every day. It´s like she watched too many episodes of "The Donna Reed Show," but that´s not it-- she´s just THAT AWESOME. And whenever I say thank you or tell her to sit down, she´s surprised, and asks what my mother does all day. I explained to her that en Los Estados Unidos, my mom is oppressed enough just existing, and wouldn´t wake up at 5 am unless you paid her.

Esther stares at me like I have two heads. In fact, it´s quite similar to the way I stare at her when she says she cleans the house every day. Seriously, you could eat off their bathroom floor (believe me, I´ve tried)-- and they even have a giant dog that doesn´t leave a hair to show for itself.

I wish I could be a Spanish wifey one day, but the legacy of slavery makes it so that I will never be able to cook or clean for another person without feeling resentful. I just hope my husband will be able to understand and won´t get testy when I make him wear a French maid uniform.

English: The Language of Love

I´m sure many of you are wondering about Sojourner´s romantic life abroad. After all, what is this blog other than sordid stories of awkward pseudo-romantic and pseudo-sexual interactions? I promise I will not disappoint the pervy ones who enjoy hearing about my "dating." There´s a lot to tell, so you may want to read this in bits.

In summation: The Brits like the blacktress-- especially the American ones.

My first night, my lovely hostess Aditi took me to an Australian bar called THE WALKABOUT. Now, many of you know how much I love a good theme, and this establishment took theirs to the max. The tvs on the wall played loops of tanned people surfing, they had all the local beers on tap, and they even had a ´down under bar´which was downstairs and had kangaroos on the walls.

We showed up (fully pre-gamed, cause the pound ain´t no joke) and took in the multi-culti scene. They were closing early, unfortch, but we were directed to the sister location in Leicester Square (by the way, that word is pronounced ´lester´-- why, i don´t know). We ordered a pitcher and I noticed a random wearing a Yankees hat. I called him over and asked him why he was repping my homeland (the sweater tied around his waist was a dead giveaway that he wasn´t American). Turned out he was from Chile, and we got to practice our Spanish as 10 people-- clearly towards the tail end of a drunken office party-- got crunked on dranks and danced to early 90s American pop hits.

As Aditi and I headed to the bar to contemplate ordering something else toxic and delicious, the dudes in front of us were ordering. Overhearing our American accents, they turned and said, ¨Do you want a shot?" Clearly, I took this shot with eagerness and we ended up chilling with the office crowd, a mix of Brits and Aussies. Before I know it, a 6´4" tall glass of English milk starts dancing with me-- he had a Hugh Grant vibe, with spectacles and paleness. His name was Tristan and he was a barister--aka lawyer. He immediately asks if I want to go outside with him. HAHAHA! I may have been foreign, but I wasn´t born yesterday, Hugh.

After more dancing, we left the dance floor so I could get my English makeout. It was decent. He kept being verbose and English, asking me before he did anything, and kept referring to me as "delectable." He was even asking me to go home with him! eep! I explained to Tristan that in FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, Hugh was far more bumbling and awkward with Andie McDowell, and I expected less masculinity from him-- and I´d just gotten here and was no way in hell going to the random beaudoir of a strange man, no matter how close to Piccadilly Circus he lives.

More making out occurred and then Aditi and I left. While Hugh and I did the requisite cell number exchange and he told me I "meant a lot to him," I left it as the one-time thing it was meant to be. You can imagine my surprise when, while on my "magical pub discovery journey" with my English husband (more on him later) Hugh/Tristan called me to tell me what a great time he had and asked if I was available for tonight. As much as I was flattered and shocked by his follow-through, I´d much rather chill with my friends than go running after a random Hugh Grant-- it was my vacay, after all; I spend enough time running after dudes in America.

Cut to Saturday night: Celebrating my last night in London, I figured that the best thing to do would be to go out all night, seeing as I had such an early flight to catch to get to Spain. Aditi and I head went out in her neighborhood, first heading to a cocktail bar to just check out the scene. While in the loo, I met this great girl named Michelle, who said she´d help me get my British kiss on my last night. Clearly, we became new best friends, and we ended up going out with her and her crew, which included two random dudes and a woman who Aditi and I called ROCKSTAR. She had short platinum blond hair, wore shiny patent leather pants with converse high tops, and a black wife beater. She was rock n roll personified.

And, in true rock n roll fashion, she directed us to a bar called THE FUNKY MUNKY. I kid you not. At the entrance, I saw a tall, strapping gentleman having his cigarette. I thought nothing of it (other than "holla at an international playa!") and went inside to dance and be debaucherous. Another bathroom run led me to two British girls who wanted to take a photo with me because I was from New York City. This was the second time this had happened to me on my journey, so I was less surprised. Sojourner´s face will be featured in an Australian birthday album, an English office party website, and now probably on two random chicks´MySpace profiles.

Anyway, somehow I end up talking to the tall British man once inside and he bought me a DRANK. We end up smooching, I explain that I´m heading to Spain the next day. He then says he will come to Barcelona and stay with me. HA! Can you imagine?! He swears he´s serious, we exchange contact info, and I head out.

So, that´s that. Fun times, right? There was also the 39 year old Irishman who kept telling me I was very curvy and had a hot body. He looked kinda like Shrek´s half brother, so we won´t discuss that.

London Calling, Pt. 2

I am currently in Spain, sitting in the oficina of my step-aunt and uncle. If this post contains several typos, I apologize in advance; i am having problemas with this keyboard.

anyway, i got in to spain at noon yesterday, and hadn´t slept since friday night-- and even that sleep was questionable. It was a whirlwind three days, involving meeting relatives I didn´t know I had (an unearthing daddy drama), going on a "magical pub discovery adventure" with a friend who hadn´t seen in 2.5 years, and getting crunked on the streets of LDN. Things I´ve learned:
- Brits don´t think it´s funny when you´re walking through the tube/subway station and start singing "America, Fuck Yeah! Coming again to save the muthafuckin´day, yeah!"
- Chips means "french fries." And, funny enough, actual potato chips are called ¨crisps."
- The customer is never right. The sassy attitude of the English server makes no apologies for f-ing up your order.
- You can not go walking around Notting Hill asking strangers where you can find Julia Roberts.
- The English lad epitomizes the word "strapping"-- you will never get osteoporosis on this side of the pond.
- The next time Brits start talking about fat Americans, remind them about the English breakfast: beans, toast, eggs, bacon AND sausage, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms. Seriously, all as on meal.
- I am indeed not black enough. When meeting my Nigerian relatives, the question of my "African side" was raised, as it was a bit upsetting to them that I interact with the white Other and had no Nigerian pals. If only they knew about my romantic life.....

London, Part 1....

Greetings from London!

Sojo is in the land of the great colonizer. On the day that we celebrate the arrival of the English in America, I have chosen to leave and head over here. So far, it's been pretty stress-free travel. I knew the trip was blessed when one of the featured movies was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix-- I think we all know how i feel about Harry Potter V! My goal for the overnight flight was to crack open a bottle of airplane wine and drift to sleep with visions of HP in my head. This indeed happened, and I even managed to score a second bottle of airplane wine, which I've tucked away in my pocketbook for later-- yes, I'm that cheap.
Primarily because I changed 245 US dollars and was given £106!!!! I am screwed. They aren't fucking around with the pound!

I'm currently writing this post from a place I was sure would be a safe haven for a woman of color, writer, and former slave such as myself: A computer lab in the School of Oriental and African Studies, in central London. As the name suggests, they are down with the study of the BROWN; everyone and their mother is a fan of the OTHER! I thought we could talk politics, and maybe I'd read them an excerpt from my famous speech "Ain't I A Woman?" Unfortunately, they can't handle the TRUTH.

These kids are all kinds of oppressed-- and not in the good way. In the last 30 minutes I've counted 12 white folks with dreadlocks (HOT MESS!!), one white girl in a sari, and some random dude rocking a staten island hoodie. On my way to the lab, I passed a student meeting about "LGBT issues." Um, I went to Wesleyan-- if they've only got 4 letters to their issues, they don't even know the half of it. But clearly they just love walking around in this dreary rainy weather under their umbrellas of oppression, cause everyone was all abuzz with talk about "issues."

It reminded me of Wesleyan, only with everyone more foreign-- and, as a result, more attractive. As I look around, I try to find potential foreign hotties. I was even tempted-- by Litsa, of course-- to sign up for a rendezvous on london.craigslist.org. I mean, think of the fodder for comedy?!

But then I remembered that such behavior would probably end up with me on the front page of The NY Post, with some tacky, inappropriate headline that attempts to pun and rhyme, while also abbreviating, like, "Put on Black Dress for dead BlackTRESS" or "Say it loud, I'm black and I'm... dead."

More to come as the quest for an English muffin continues....

Mondays With Artists

Yeah, it's Wednesday, whatever.

But I had to share this ridiculous press release that came to my attention this morning. I won't use the artist's name, but this is at the very top of her press release:

Ms. Anderson is a passionate woman. She's passionate about life, she's passionate about family--and she's really, really passionate about cutlery.
That's right, cutlery: forks, knives, and spoons.
They are, according to Anderson, so much more than they appear.

What? What the hell does this mean? I love that cutlery trumps family and life. Cutlery IS life.

Clearly, this woman has no one to love and nothing else to do, and she's surrounded by people who lead her to believe her love for cutlery qualifies as "Art" and not "Mental Illness."

The end of the press release says she's available for interviews; I may have to call her up. I think she may need the Sojourner Truth.

I should also mention that this quote is from an excerpt from a longer article in the "Costco Connection 2007" Has anyone heard of this publication? I assume you receive it with your bulk items. Why haven't I been writing for this magazine? Clearly, they'll take anything.

Are you passionate about cutlery? What about when it.... glows?

SoundZ Like FUN!

So, I am trying to regain my blacktress-blogger work ethic by providing more than one post a week. I blame the fact that I haven’t posted on yet another discovery in my life:The bar/club Soundz.

Yes, that’s with a ‘z’. Located on Broadway, between 124^th and 125^th streets, I like to think Soundz is singlehandedly responsible for the Harlem Renaissance of the new millennium—aka Gentrification in the 21^st Century.

Oh, sidebar: Don’t you hate when you’re talking to someone and get the words ‘genocide’ and ‘gentrification’ confused?

Anyway, back to Soundz. I first attended with Litsa (obvi) and the uni-testicular failure who will go unnamed. I wanted to prove my pimp hand was strong, so I offered to buy them drinks. I ordered a beer, a wine, and a cocktail, and the total was…. 12 DOLLARS!!!

Thank god someone’s keeping liquor accessible to the black community—and Columbia students! $12 for 3 drinks. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I would have to say that ends up being $4 per drink—on a Friday night! Holla at a broke playa!

We sidle up the bar, where we talk to the bartender—a grad student who pours drinks heartily and with affection. Once on the plush red velveteen couches, we are socially attacked by Aziz and Amir, two brown men who clearly lack social skills—and no, it’s not cause they’re brown! Aziz was wearing a wedding band on his right hand and tried to front like he wasn’t married; and Amir told me my hat was sexy.

Um, it’s wasn’t lace. My breast wasn’t popping out of it. There’s nothing sexy about Banana Republic knitwear. Besides, I was clearly all up on another man who I would soon discover had one testicle—clearly, I wasn’t Amir’s for the taking.

My next voyage to SoundZ was last Wednesday, and it was me, Litsa, and several middle aged black men. Now, I should mention that Soundz is under the train tracks—which would explain why it attracts such rif raf. Litsa and I told the bartender about how we plan to make a documentary about this location, with it’s red light special-lighting, unnecessary velvet rope outside (no one’s clamoring to get in), and patrons who eat Chinese food and McDonald’s from neighboring establishments. I’m also hoping to turn it into some sort of dating game, in which the winning contestants receive an all-expenses-paid trip to the bathroom, where magic happens and babies are made!

Passport to Freedom

Dear Readers/Equals,

I am heading to Europe to spread the truth. Starting Wednesday, I will spend 3 days in London, where I will say “Frosted Flakes” when they say “Cheerio!” and then head to Barcelona, where I will tell LA VERDAD! Though it may seem odd to leave this country on one of our highest of holy days-- Thanksgiving-- I feel it is on the day of celebrating the oppression of a minority that I must escape.

I’m excited for this getaway primarily because the United States is heaping oppression on me like we’re back in slave days. How, you may ask?

1. I did not get the co-op. Apparently, I’m not good enough to live in a newly renovated crack den. Fine then, let them gentrify it and don’t blame me when the Columbia kids leave the doors unlocked and everyone gets jacked!!

2. I was rejected by a 25 year old actor who is new to this fair city and has one testicle. Um, excuse me? While I was initially drawn to the fact that he was a survivor, and could perhaps relate to oppression and darkness (as well as the dark woman), it turns out I really should have focused on the most important part of his identity: he’s an ACTOR. Though I am a blacktress, and appreciate the artistic yearning, actors often have the following traits which prevent them from being true:
- They are egotistical.

- They are broke

- They sleep on twin-sized air mattresses.

- They live in non-renovated crack dens.

But they also often have a charm and charisma which is dangerous when unleashed. And I must admit I was the victim of yet another performer, another player on life’s stage. And he indeed played me—much like a remake of a Shakespearean drama starring the latest Hollywood tart-let.

Clearly, the quest for the winter spoon is not going so well. So I now pack my bags, head to foreign lands, and hope for the best. And by “the best” I mean, “copious amounts of food, non-awkward fetishizing of my Nubian beauty, and sexy accents.”

Wish me luck. I may not return.

I HATE NEW YORK

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of a post in nearly two weeks. Things have been dark and rough for Sojourner, as the brisk fall air has rapidly turned to bone-crushing winter windiness, and I’m losing my will to go out and about. I’ve been in a bit of a stalemate, as the co-op board continues to oppress me. I had my meeting with them on Nov. 1, and have still heard nothing! Did we hook up at a party after a drunken night of debauchery? Have they been talking to Mr. Whiteley? Why are they avoiding me?!

I just want a place to live that’s not a cardboard box! Is that too much to ask? I’m just a woman of color and a writer, trying to stop the gentrification of Harlem by living and working and growing. LET ME LIVE!

I digress. This is not why I post today, gentle readers. Last night, I received a call from actor, comedian, genius Nick Cearley. It went something like this.

Sojo: Hello, Mr. Cearley. To what do I owe this honor?

Nick: Well, Sojourner, you haven’t blogged in a while, and I was worried. I called to check up on you.

Sojo: Oh, Massa Cearley, you see into my soul! It’s just been so rough out here for a blacktress and I’ve just shut down.

Nick: We need the truth, Sojourner.

Sojo: I will give it to you, Massa. The truth, the whole truth, and NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

The massa has spoken. I must blog. I must preach it. I have a potential winter spoon in the works, but seeing as he’s not foreign, crazy, or offensive, I’m going to try to create good karma and not talk about our weekend of magic. Instead, I will discuss the latest thing to rock my world: I LOVE NEW YORK.

Okay, I know I’m about two years behind with this reference, but it has only recently become a part of my life, and I have no idea how I haven’t ranted about this tramp before.

New York is single-handedly setting back the black women’s movement by 75 years. With her fake breasts—looking like two goiters—and her mangling of the English language, I am unclear on why exactly these men are vying for her affection. The episode I had the pleasure of seeing (at Litsa’s house, after having a delicious breakfast of Chinese food), involved the signing of a blood oath—or, as New York called it, a “blood OAF”—which required the men profess their love for New York, as well as present her with an object that was valuable to them.

The most touching object came from Punk, a large black man who attended Harvard law school and is an up-and-coming attorney. He has a terrible jerry curl, size DD man-breasts, and arms like ham hocks. But, looks aside, he is the smartest and most mentally sound man on the show. Why in the name of the Lord is he on reality television? To show his love for New York, he brings his deceased father’s wristwatch, and tells a touching story of how important it was to his father that he become a lawyer. New York was moved, as he pricked his finger and placed a bloody fingerprint on his oaf. (Is any of this really sanitary? I wonder, as I digest MSG and am fondled by Litsa’s lesbian dogs)

The most ridiculous object was from a man who I call… Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (I forget his real moniker). He slurs incessantly and has no concept of reality, and covers his head in gypsy-style rags—though he has no hair to speak of. He approached the altar and displays the following:

“This is a wallet my grandmuva had got in Egypt—cause she travels a lot and that’s important to me. And then there’s this ring my fava had gave to my muva. She wore it for her driving test and she failed the first time, then she wore it again and she had passed.”

Um… What?!

Instead of bringing something valuable, Fetal decided to bring two useless things. There is nothing special about a ring that your mom wore on two occasions, resulting in totally different outcomes. And, like, did his “Grandmuva” do something in Egypt? Did she at least bring back a baby Zahara or something? Why am I impressed?

Needless to say, Fetal did not sign the blood oaf and was voted off the show.

Instead, New York decides to bring back Buddha, a man who she felt was wrongly kicked off the show. “The opportunity to find true love was tooken from me,” she explained over a meal at a fancy restaurant (where her bright purple bra poked out of the top and back of her dress).

TOOKEN?

Um... I struggled to learn to read, repeatedly risked beating and death, hiding pamphlets and alphabet blocks from my masssas, only for this damn fool to say TOOKEN!

She is a disgrace to my hard work and triumph. And she insults the hard work I put in to find a winter spoon when she has a bevy of men to choose from (granted, they are mostly crazy, mildly retarded with Asperberger’s and herpes—but still).

This is a pic from a different episode, but this is the SAME BRA that was peeking out during the fancy dinner, during which she said "tooken"

COTTON gin and tonics with Gay Visionaries-- aka HALLOWEEN

Happy Halloween Everybody!

Okay, I know I’m late—it’s called CP time. Get with it.

So, it’s been a while since I blogged. It’s because there have almost been too many things to discuss!!! Let’s re-cap:

The Greek went crazy. He began sending me angry emails, hurling insults at me much in the way the god Zeus hurled lightning bolts at mere mortals for sport. He also called me, utilizing his lack of a cell phone to give me attitude and force me to speak with him. He simply could not handle the truth of the fact that I DIDN'T WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM EVER AGAIN.

Whiteley never called. He’s dead to me. I should have known not to even holla at a man who sleeps on a mattress on a floor.

I’m meeting with the co-op board tonight to see if I get my apartment!!! This is the big moment guys. Sojo will finally be free from the shackles of the oppression of her mother and her latin lover Eduardo. Keep your fingers crossed (for me) and your legs crossed (for Jesus)!

Last night was the greatest night of my life. I attended the Halloween/birthday extravaganza of the actor Nick Cearley, where gorgeous gay men were scantily clad and enjoying $5 mojitos. It was men, men everywhere—and not a drop to drink!!! While I’m normally against the “holiday” of Halloween, as it encourages people to assume alternate identities and not live up to the TRUTH, I thought I’d reclaim it and show the truth of who I once was.

I donned my old bonnet, the skirt I wore when working in the fields, and I brought some cotton balls that I’d picked in the hot, sweaty aisles of Duane Reade. I called the white men ‘Massa’ and didn’t look them in the eye—just as I used to do. I knew it might make people uncomfortable, but they don’t call me “You can’t handle the TRUTH” for nothing!

(That's me and Massa Colin, remembering the good times.)

Though I anticipated scorn, and prayed I wouldn't be attacked by someone dressed as a Black Panther, I was pleased to find that the gays could indeed handle my truth. One fine man—his name was Patrick, I believe—was wearing a green sleeveless top and booty shorts to accentuate his…. Masculinity. He came up to me and said, “Sister, where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

I was shocked. I wasn’t anticipating this introduction from a half-naked man. I faltered.

“What?” I said.

“I said—where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

“DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE!!!!!”

We began a rousing rendition of the old spiritual that my mammy used to sing to me, and he told me he was from Mississippi. We spoke of the past and how we’d changed, and the freedom we’d both enjoyed as oppressed peoples. I asked him how he could be so bold as to come out on the streets of Manhattan in such a clothing—or, bet yet, lack of clothing.

He explained to me that he was one of BLOW WHITE’S SEVEN WHORES:

Sleazy, Easy, Slutty, Bitchy, Horny, Sticky, and… COCK!

The most brilliant costume I’ve ever seen in my life. Each of these whores came into my world and showed me the TRUTH of Halloween—it’s about creativity, expressing oneself as a strong black woman/man/trans and wearing little more than a codpiece.

As I relished in the beauty of the moment and sang “Wade in the Water” with my new massas, I tall figure caught my eye. It was—No, it couldn’t be! Yes—it was!

Actor Jeff Hiller!!!!!!!

You may recall from my previous posting on the musical extravaganza Bernice Bobs Her Mullet, that Jeff Hiller is my calcium boost, gay icon, and actor/comedian extraordinaire. I have been drawn to his art since seeing him perform in the UCB group CREEP, where is I was drawn to his height, his rapier wit, and subtle-yet-effective fashion sense. When I saw him as Draycott Deyo in Joe Major’s magnum opus, my friend crush grew deeper. And now, it could become real.

I instantly stopped Jeff in his tracks, as he made his way over to the birthday boy. I told him my name, showed him my cotton balls, and told him I would be his surrogate, should the need ever arise. I spoke in run-on sentences, explained how I had TiVo’d the two commercials he’s currently featured in, and called him “Massa Hiller.”

Jeff could handle the truth!!!!!!! He laughed, he didn’t fear the blacktress, and he was everything I dreamed he’d be. After letting him say his hellos and work the room, I moved in again, apologizing for my intensity. I asked him about his craft, how he became so self-actualized (and tall), and what I could do to get out there as a blacktress. I told him I would be the Mel to his Flight of the Conchords. His response:
“Oh, you mean my friend Kristin?”

SHUT THE FLIP UP! How could he just drop that Nagasaki bomb on me like it wasn’t no thang?! I lost it, I had to be torn away and escorted to the underground railroad so that I could go home.I think he thought I was drunk.

I wasn’t.

But I think I may have finally found my baby daddy.

Everyone who reads this should look Jeff up on MySpace and totally become his friend. Tell him Sojourner sent you. He’ll know what it means.

Okay, back to work on the plantation!

The Unanswerable Question-- I Need Your Help!

So, as you know, I had a wonderful Friday night- Saturday morning date (holla!) with Whiteley.

It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).

Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.

Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!

As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!

Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!

Walkin' in a Whiteley Wonderland....

I’m really taking the motto of ‘erase, replace, embrace new face’ to heart. I think I have a new crush. After only two dates, I've weighed the facts:

PROS	CONS
-he’s not Australian -he’s not foreign in any way -he’s a tall glass of skim milk (I don’t want osteoporosis) -he’s not a racist -he doesn’t want to cum on my face -he has no idea what a black fur shrug is, let alone has the urge to purchase one. -he's not blacktose intolerant.	-he lives deep in Brooklyn (long-distance relationship) -he’s currently (f)unemployed -he’s from Indiana (which is kinda foreign) -he’s a starving artist -he doesn’t call me every day in a stalkerly fashion (I need constant reassurance) - his last name is WHITELEY!

Should it in some way be illegal for me to date a man with the last name Whiteley? I can’t decide. And it took me damn near an hour on the underground railroad just to get to his crib—can I really make this trek in the depths of winter?? Well, seeing as it’s damn near 80 degrees a week before Halloween, maybe I have a little time before I start worrying about the winter trek.

I think my real hesitation comes from the fact that I’ve been putting all the work into this imaginary relationship. I have initiated dates 1 and 2, and I’m wondering how into Sojo this whitey—I mean, WHITELEY—is. On one hand, his (f)unemployed status means that I’m the one with the schedule that needs to be accommodated, so perhaps that’s why he’s letting me take the reigns. Then again, it could be that he’s a lazy hot mess. How will I be able to find out without getting emotionally oppressed?

I know I should just let him call me and see what happens. But I can’t help but want to cook him lasagna and spoon him in his college dorm-style bedroom. Besides, the TRUTH of the matter is that I like him. He's cute. I'm bored. I want to cuddle. And he's not doing anything else. So, let's get it on til the break of dawn!

No? Too much? Leave advice.

Where Am I?

So, I'm sitting here, packaging artists' slides and listening to music, creating a cocoon of productivity, when the mail guy rolls by my cubicle/veal pen with his cart. Mail guy is middle aged, bald, and has about 2 good teeth-- hot mess. He likes to chat, and I try to be friendly, so we have a rapport (and sometimes I get free interoffice envelopes). However, I do like to maintain a certain distance-- not only due to his breath, but because he's a little too chatty for my taste.

And this time, he went a bit too far.

"Hey Naomi, I got something for you."

I turn around, as mail guy often says this-- and it's ALWAYS MAIL. I mean, what else would he have for me? Yet, he always says he's got "something," as though we have secret exchanges. Hmm... maybe he's referring to the same PACKAGE as R. Kelly.

Anyway, I look and see that mail guy is holding.... a giant plastic green bottle, filled with confetti, a copy of Parenting magazine (with Shrek on the cover), and other treats.

WHAT?!

"That is not for me, Mail Guy."

"Yes it is, look," he says, gesturing towards the bottles opening, where there is a large slit. "It's a piggy bank, too. I thought you could use it. It's a bottle and it's a piggy bank."

Again, I ask, WHAT?!

"Mail Guy, give that to whoever it belongs to."

He begins to roll away, laughing, "You know I take care of you, girl. I look out."

What is happening today?

The bottle was this big. Seriously. Wait, no-- it was BIGGER.

Mondays With Artists....

Okay, I know that technically today is Thursday, but I like the idea of a theme of sorts, so I’ve decided to use the same title as before. For background, see my previous post on the crazies I encounter via telephone at my place of employment. The following conversation was much more brief than Ms. Tembly, but still managed to pack enough discomfort in 3 minutes that I felt the need to share it with you. Read on, gentle reader….

Sojourner: Hello Ms. Sharp, this is Sojourner Truth, returning your call.

Sharp: Oh, yes, hello. I spoke with your advertising office yesterday and got some information. See, I’d been confused about my ad placement. I had been advertising online, thinking it was affiliated with your magazine, but it’s actually another publication.

Sojo: I see, I see. Will you be placing an ad in our directory this year?

Sharp: Yes, I will. I’ve been out of the business for a while. (she then proceeds to tell me the following in a casual, almost offhand manner, as though she reciting her grocery list): My son was living with me for a while, then he got sick and died, and I lost a couple of years of my life, so I’m getting the business side of things in order.

Sojo: I’m sorry.

(I really didn’t know what to say. I was uncomfortable. This was much, much more than I needed to know—and had very little to do with the ad she was placing. )

Sharp: I love your magazine, but I live up in the sticks-- with a Nazi magazine retailer who doesn’t carry any of the publications I like.

(Harsh words—I see ‘Sharp’ isn’t just a clever surname. This woman is fierce.)

Sojo: We can start you on a subscription if you’d like.

(The attempt to see her the magazine is part of my new motto, ABC—Always Be Closing. You’ve gotta be workin’ it 24/7 365)

Sharp: Oh, I can’t do that. You see, Sojourner, on my social security income I can’t afford to subscribe to any magazines.

Uh-oh…I’ve just made things worse and more awkward.

Sharp: I’m living on basically $10- $15 per day, which comes out to roughly $3 per hour. And I’ve been calling my congressman to raise the social security so that it at least matches minimum wage, but it’s a losing battle.

Sojo: Oh, hell to the no, Ms. Sharp—that’s a hot mess!!!

Sharp: It is, Sojourner.

(We share a moment of silence, bonded over our oppression. Though, quite frankly, I made less than that as a slave, and I managed to still add some spice to my food.)

Sharp: Do you still write articles on artists.

(Um, yeah… that’s what we do.)

Sojo: Of course!

Sharp: Well, I’d love to submit my work for your review. I’ve been working on a 2008 calendar that I think shows great pieces.

Sojo: Great! I’ll send you our guidelines, all right?

I take down her e-mail address and mentally promise to donate some money to her life. It’s a hand up, not a hand out.

Let Me Tell You aSTORIa... About a Greek Man...

The Greek is over.

Cue strings.

After only 5 "dates," Zeus is out of the picture. I know that in Greek mythology gods can't "die," but Apollo is dead... to me. Yes, folks-- Poseidon has drowned, Hermes has run out of frequent flier miles, Ajax can no longer clean stains.

Friday night, Ambrosia and I headed to Queens for some.... one on one time. It was time to act on the tension.

Apparently it was also time for me to act impressed! Turns out Achilles' weakness isn't his heel-- if you know what I mean (and I think you do....*). I'd been anticipating tenderness and hotness, but it was rushed and lukewarm at best. I should also mention that Zeus had a tank of geckos in his bedroom.

I don't like to be watched, especially by animals peddling car insurance.

After a fitful night's sleep (apparently, they don't have indoor heating in Queens), I woke up and Zeus and I cuddled. I wondered when I was going to get my morning post-coital omelette. Instead, Odysseus excitededly told me he had a present for me and went to the closet.

What could it be? A key to his kingdom in Kalamata (yes, like the olives)?! A toga made of pure silk? A life-size drawing of my sleeping nude ebony figure?

It was a black fur shrug purchased at a thrift store.

I kid you not.

I'm not good at hiding my emotions (see previous posts, re: TRUTH), so forcing a smile was difficult. "Is this for me?" I asked, hoping he'd think my shock was born out of excitement. I'm clearly a much better blacktress than I thought, because he excitedly removed it from the hanger and told me to try it on.

"I thought it would look nice because of the black on black and the soft fur," he explained. He also admitted that he had purchased it for me after our second date.

I wanted to tell him it was a black on black crime, and he should be ashamed of his damn self for even looking at-- let alone purchasing-- such an abomination. But I didn't, cause it's the thought that counts.

The question is-- what was he thinking?!

As we headed out of the house (hopefully to get food, though this had yet to be determined), my dear sweet Litsa called, seeking blacktress council. I chatted with her for a while, then got off the phone so as not to be rude to Oedipus (this is a fitting name, as he recently told me he calls his mother 'little whore'-- WHAT?!). I filled him in on our chat, just to make him feel included and share some tenderness-- big mistake.

This ended up sparking a whole tirade on the "trivialities of people's lives," and how I shouldn't even offer advice because people will do what they want to do.

Zeus has no soul. And he won't feed me. And he requires extensive travel for lackluster love. And he doesn't have a cell phone.

There are geckos in his room.

He bought me a black fur shrug.

Need I say more?

Time to erase, replace, embrace a new face! Help-- only 4 weeks til Thanksgiving, and I wanna be thankful for a good man!

*it's his penis. Apparently those statues aren't out of proportion after all! (yes, I went there!)

Mating Season

I know how boring it is to talk about the weather, guys, but this time I really think its important. As you all know by the brisk night air, fall is finally approaching—and it is indeed an inconvenient truth. Why? Because now it’s time for me to get a damn man!

See, in the summer, I could be single and free, wearing my tank tops and flip flops, and still keep it grown and sexy. Now, it’s time for tall socks, unflattering winter hats, and layers of clothing. And nothing kills the damn mood like layers of clothing. Have you ever tried to act on your sexual impulses when you’re wearing tights under your pants?! By the time you get undressed, it’s time to put the clothes back on again!

I like to have a man from Thanksgiving to Arbor Day. That way, I can get holiday loving and cuddle while it’s too cold to go out. Not only will I be able to celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah and KWANZAA with a special someone, but my birthday (December 7—mark it!) is also a time where a man pillow is in order. As the Christmas song goes: Oh the weather outside is frightful/but the coitus is so delightful/and since we’ve no place to go/let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…

After a stand up show last night, I was talking to intern about this phenomenon. Intern is a tall glass of milk who works in my office—but not for my company. I call him “intern” not only to protect his fragile undergraduate identity but to make him feel like he has a role. He is more than a cog in the wheel who sorts packages in the mailroom.

Anyway, intern said that he and his guy friends call this time of year “Wife Season.” I didn’t know men could be so practical! They know that people stop going out—and put on winter weight—around the holidays, and the likelihood of finding a fine piece of ace after the new year is slim to none. It’s completely acceptable to find someone attractive in October and stay with them until the leaves re-(Orlando)bloom, even if you don’t like them all that much. I completely agree with this strategy, as I’ve learned that there is no such thing as “the one” or “destiny”—people come into your life for a reason…. or a season. And for me, that season is winter.

This came up during an image search for "wife season." They don't look very happy.

If you have any eligible bachelors who appreciate a good spooning and like a cup of hot chocolate on a winter’s night, holla at a freed slave playa!

I'm currently working on this "winter wife" concept by releasing pure pheromones.

Seriously, this is the only way I can explain the fact that, last weekend, I attracted the attention of three different males. I think I may have mono—you know, the kissing disease.

Friday night started out innocently enough-- though I was worried things would get out of control. I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn during the Blackout of 2007, so I thought that I’d somehow recreate the night of horrors. I went out with a motley crew of theater friends, internet lovers, and college pals. The night began as it should: with wine at the Bourgeois Pig, then a trip to St. Dymphna's to find foreign men. Somehow, Uncle Ming's (my haven of debauchery) became involved, and I met a tall bald man. He became quite smitten with the blacktress, and insisted that Sojo (and her friends) attend HOME, a fancy meatpacking district bar. This is not usually my scene, but, needing something to blog about, I went.

Cut to us dancing in our private table with bottle service as the banker boy smooches Sojo.... and I smooch back!

Saturday involved a trip to Queens to see the Greek (who I know call ZEUS), and then a trip to Brooklyn for a b-day party. Somehow, I met another tall glass of skim and just told him, "I wanna make out with you."

What can I say? Oh, I know: "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the discovery channel."

That's Zeus, and that's a white version of me begging for his winter lovin'.

Office Wife

You may be surprised to learn that, in addition to being a woman of color, writer, and blacktress, I am also in a committed REAL-ationship with a woman.

She is my office wife. Her name is Allison, and she’s a semi-precious stone of Caucasian beauty.

Initially, I was nervous and awkward around Allison. She wears a lot of muted tones, sensible slacks, and has well-coiffed blonde hair. I figured she was not going to be able to handle Sojourner. I was worried that she’d be like, “aah, she’s black, I don’t know how to talk to her!” and she’d mistake my sassiness for negro anger. I was warned pre-meeting not to use profanity around Allison, lest her delicate ears burn.

Then, one day, I came in to work looking all done up. It’s a rare moment, when the contact lenses and cute top appear in tandem, and Allison noticed. Not only did she feed my ego, but she also said, “Oh, you got your hair did!”

YES! I got my hair DID!!!

Where Allison learned the incorrect verbiage used for black-tresses, I will never know! What are they teaching young people in the suburbs of Hoboken?! My shock was further compounded when, a few days later, I asked Alli for some hand lotion and she said, “Why, are your elbows ashy?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!! Kind of offensive, yet kind of hilarious and subversive!
She can handle the truth!!

The best part is that she says these things with the wide-open eagerness of a child, not a hint of irony or self-awareness in her voice. Her words are pure and her love is true.

Since those moments, I’ve let it all hang out with Allison, even letting her read my blog. And she attended my comedic performance a few weeks back, and laughed at moments when others didn’t. I think this is why I love her most. No matter what I say to her, she cracks up. She allows my randomness to flow free, and makes our cubicles/veal pens feel like wide open meadows filled with flowers and unicorns.

Do you see how poetic this love makes me?!

And when she edits my articles, wielding her red pen like a sword, I know she’s doing it out of love. She is doing it so that, one day my blogs don’t contain so many typos and improper uses of commas. She does it because she cares.

We’re getting gay married in Ontario next week. Our registry is at pottery barn and Melissa Ethridge’s garage sale.


This is me and Alli. She's standing over me copyediting an article I wrote. She's kind of like a female Abe Lincoln, in her understanding of the brown people and desire for us to be equals.

Spreading the TRUTH- SOJO LIVE

Here's 15 minutes of Sojourner ranting about internet dates, low standards, grandmas.

Hear the truth. See it in the nubian flesh.

I know it's a little dark (like Sojo herself), but we're all black when the lights go out-- holla!



Leave a comment. Like McDonald's, I welcome your feedback.

Gross Moments

Oh my god.

I think I work in a crack den.

I went to the bathroom after having my mid-afternoon Oreo* cookies and milk and saw a GIANT COCKROACH.

It was huge! I swear, I thought I heard it talk.

I was in the individual/handicapped/differently abled bathroom and almost screamed in horror. The cockroach was clearly startled by my presence, and started to zoom around the room. I thought I was trapped until I remembered to turn the handle-- much like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park (they're thinking!!!!).

I left the stall and had to use the larger ladies room, which is very difficult for me, as I hate relieving myself publicly. Luckily, it was just a onesy, so I hightailed it out of there pretty quick.

Once I calmed down, I started to think of "Flavor of Love," cause I've always thought Flava Flav looks like a cockroach. LOOK:

EWWWW.... He is so terrifying. I think the flavor of his love is something nasty, like... urine.
When the world comes to an end, only Flava will survive.

Anyway, that, coupled with the recent consumption of Oreos had me thinking about how badly I want to be on that show. You know how he gives each girl a demeaning nickname? I think mine would be something ridiculous like "Brainy Bourgie," cause I can read, string coherent sentences together, and will not relieve myself publicly like many of them are wont to do.

I can hear him now in the confessional:
"Oh yeah, I'm feeling Brainy Bourgie, cause she classy. She always be recoilin' when I come close-- that sh** be sexy. Oh yeah, she makin' it to the next round. We could have some smarty-art babies, little Urkels runnin' around."

I would totally use my chance in the spotlight to call the truth left and right on that show. I'd show up with Toni Morrison books, GED exams, and get those sad women on the right track. I know their only aspiration is to be a video ho, but they should at the very least be able to count their earnings and tally up a bill.



*for the longest time I was called an Oreo due to my tendency to "talk White." It took me years before I'd put one of those delicious treats to my lips. By the way, I don't talk White, I talk right!

My Big Fat Greek Relationship

So, I think somewhere between fall of 2001 and last night, I lost my emotional virginity.

Seriously. I no longer feel optimism or excitement, and do not trust a word that comes out of the mouth of a heterosexual male. There was a time when it was all new and magical, and now I'm just like.... meh.

I had date # 2 with the Greek man last night.

We basically met up in front of Whole Paycheck--I mean Whole Foods-- with nothing planned. We met at 7pm-- clearly food hour-- and we ended up walking around the East Village and talking on a park bench.

Now, listen, I'm all down for living on the cheap-- and I respect the starving artist lifestyle (at least when you're actually foreign and broke, and not just going to the salvation army to beat all the poor people to the clothes), but I was looking too fine to be sitting on a park bench.

We did a lot of talking, and at one point a mildly drunk, 40-something-year-old Irishman walks by us. He's drinking red wine in a solo cup. He looks at the Greek demigod and says:
"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but I want to say that you're a very handsome man. I hope when I grow up I'm as handsome as you are."

SEE HOW HOT HE IS????? HE MAKES INTOXICATED STRAIGHT MEN OPENLY GAY!!!!

Anyway, I'm cracking up at the absurdity of dating someone ridiculously good-looking (does this happen to hot people all the time???), when the Irishman turns to me and says, "You're gorgeous. You two are a very attractive couple. Are you a couple?"

I was flustered and confused by this. Not only was I now hot by association, but this complete stranger was calling out the status of our love on date deuce! I immediately put the kabosh on that. I say, "NO"..... just as El Greco says, "We're trying to be."

In the words of Nick Cearley in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet": What an awkward moment!!!

I then scold the drunk for making things awkward and shoo him away. My date and I are left to marinate in our opposing views.

I don't know if it's something in the dolma, but the Greek man is blunt. He's, like, seriously so honest it's almost comical. On one hand, when he says, "I don't do anything I don't want to do," I can be sure he's on a date with me because he wants to be, and he's happy just sitting on a park bench and relishing in my nubianess. On the other hand, he will have no regard for my feelings and say whatever pops into his head. On my third hand (yes, I'm a three-handed circus freak), his honesty allows me to be just as TRUTHFUL, which you know I'm all about.

Later, in Union Square Park (yes, it was a hobo evening of park benches), the Greek asks me if I want to be his girlfriend.

DATE NUMBER 2, PEOPLE!!!

While I was flattered and turned on by the concept of commitment, I was taken aback by this suddeness. Much like the Whole Foods where we met, I like these things to happen organically. The man hasn't even seen me in my spectacles and retainer (yep, I'm classy)-- how can he be ready to handle my truths?!

I've decided he's like a puppy. An excited, fresh-from-the-pound golden retriever puppy, who is excited and jumps all over you and playfully licks in its quest to find an owner. While the energy and cuteness draws you in and makes you want to take him home and love him all night, he is still a canine. And like any puppy, he will inevitably crap on your carpet and need to be hit on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

BAD, BAD, GREEK HOTTIE! YOU ARE MOVING TOO FAST!!

He called me today. Yes, about 14 hours later-- for someone without a cell phone, he certainly knows how to reach out and touch a sister-- and he will call me every day if I ask him to. And he will also grow his facial hair because I told him I liked the way it looked on our first date.

I guess I should be swooning, but I'm not. You would think a fine, tall, foreign glass of milk who is willing to do whatever I ask would be a dream come true, and yet I'm spent (like the money in his wallet must be if I can't even get a meal!).

I've got the mentality of a 40-year-old divorcee: cold, bitter, cynical, and feeling emotionally chubby. No matter how fine he may be, I just don't want someone all up in my George Foreman (grill) unless they can engage in thoughtful discourse on race, drink red wine, decipher my drunken texts, write sonnets in iambic pentameter, and sit with me and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. Oh yeah, and if they have to STAY IN MY TIME ZONE.

I worry that someone who can start an exclusive relationship after 2 dates may be a bit fickle in his affections. Am I wrong? Leave an opinion.

And, here's another question: If you could be a Ninja Turtle, which one would you be???
I think I'd be Raphael, the angsty one.

Bernice Bobs Her Mullet

As a woman of color and a writer, it is behoovy of me to attend as many theatrical events as possible. I especially love a good musical (perhaps it's because of the spirituals of my ancestors), and last week I attended one of the greatest musicals of our time: BERNICE BOBS HER MULLET.

It's like "Mean Girls" meets "Jerry Springer" in its sassiness and white trashery. It's the story of Bernice, a po' white girl (so broke she can't afford the "o" or the "r") who longs to leave her small town of Eau Claire, Arkansas, and see the big city. In this case the big city is Little Rock!!!

This is when you know you're in for a treat. As Bernice sings about the "culture shock in Little Rock," I begin clapping like a cracked out toddler. My excitement is further compounded by the fact that I am attending this event with three of the most attractive gay men I've ever seen (other than Isiah Washington, of course). I am sitting next to my crush, Tumbles (I give them all names, kind of like Flava Flav on 'Flavor of Love'), and I am in heaven! We are there to support a friend in the production, actor Nick Cearley. I don't know Nick that well, but after viewing 'Trapped in the Closet' with him, a love affair was born.

Now, after seeing him in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet," I'm prepared to be his beard, his best woman when he gets gay married, and donate my womb as a surrogate. He is the greatest actor of our time. I believe I squeezed Tumbles' bulging bicep as soon as Nick began to sing the song "What An Awkward Moment."

YES! Finally, a writer has been clever enough to put a lyrical spin on my favorite character trait.
Cearley's acting chops were put to the test when he had to accompany this musical magic with the unneccessary use of jazz hands. It takes a true actor to pull off choreography meant for a 3rd grade girl scout troop.

I would have to say the show's highlight was the musical extravaganza lead by actor Jeff Hiller, who played a fundamentalist Christian preacher named Draycott Deyo.... or however a weird name like that is spelled. Hiller is 6-feet 5 inches tall, gay as the day is long, and funnier than a barrel of monkeys. Give him the accompaniment of song (and the clever use of tambourines and African dance moves as backup), and he simply lights up a stage. And my heart.

Tumbles was thrown by my excitement as I grabbed his testicles in a fit of glee.

There was also the requisite bitchy girl, cousin Marjorie, who can't stand Bernice's white trash ways (little does Marjorie know, she's trashy herself. And a bit of a slut-- which we can infer by the fact that she sings the climax of a song while doing cartwheels and a series of rotating splits, which most likely chafed her vajay-jay). Marjorie's musical moment was the hit song, "I Hate Myself," which was simply brilliant. Marjorie explains to Bernice that if she wants to fit in among the rich elite of Little Rock, it is best to "hate yourself to recreate yourself."

SO TRUE.

Nothing gets a fatty off the couch and on an elliptical like self-loathing.

The lessons provided by this musical are too numerous to mention in one post. I suggest you find a way to see it (hold the cast hostage and force them to reenact it if you have to) and experience the magic for yourself. I also had the pleasure of meeting the writer/elite gay visionary Joe Major (whom I now have a major crush on-- PUNS!), to whom I expressed my awe and desire for negroes in the production. You know a show is good when Sojo wants it to go multi-culti.

I am going to start a petition demanding that "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet" receive an extended run on the great Broad-way in January 2008. I think it's time the NYC tourists saw their lives on the stage, instead of all those damn spelling bees.

He's So Hot-- BOOM!

OH. MY. GOD.

So, I had my date with the Greek man last night, guys.

I am still swooning.

Ok, seriously: Is it wrong to want to marry someone simply because they are hotter than Sanaa Lathan making out with Halle Berry while Denzel Washington watches?

(That’s a triple threat of hotness, in case you didn't get that)

He is classically handsome. So hot, he probably shouldn’t be allowed to walk around normal society. I think I want to put him in a cage and just poke him. And take him out for feedings.... OF SEX.

He's so hot, he could be a part-time model (and you know how I love those). He could be a gigolo-- and with that accent?! He could make many unhappily married moneyed wives very satisfied.

But is there such a thing as too hot? As I’ve said in previous posts, being too hot can be dangerous. When we were walking together I felt fear—I mean, more than just the general, Oh-lord-some-black-man-is-going-to-give-me-dagger-eyes-for-dating-this-white-boy fear. I was worried that pretty girls would come up to me and punch me, steal my wallet, then use my money to take the Greek god out to dinner.

Is that silly?

The only thing that made me feel superior to (and thereby good enough for) him is the fact that English is his second language. His linguistic foibles are so endearing. When he was trying to impress me with the books he likes to read (philosophy, religion, the classics—YAWN!), I responded with:

So, you’re no fun and don’t like laughter?
To which he replied, “No, I’m just trying to impress you. I like to joke around. I have a very black sense of humor.”

Huh? By “black humor,” does he mean like Sanford & Son or Def Comedy Jam?
OH! He means “dark humor,” like sarcastic and morbid—teehee, oh foreign man!

Every now and then he’d grasp for a word, and I would feel like a secret genius, ready to aid his foreign mind with my knowledge of complex adjectives.

But language can be learned. Sayings and turns of phrase can be placed in context.
But hotness is a gift. A genetic gift.

Despite his euro jacket (very…. 80s MJ, circa "Thriller"), his hotness was clear as day—and even more so without the fedora (see previous post).

His hotness reminded me of this song I love, by Flight of the Conchords. It’s called “She’s So Hot…BOOM!” In the first line, singer Bret Mackenzie says, “She’s so hot, she’s like a curry. If I tell her she’s hot, will she think I’m sexist? She’s so hot she’s making me sexist. Bitch.”

See for yourself.

I know exactly how he feels. Who's the Boom King? Greek God is the Boom King!


So, date #1 ended with plans for date #2, which will take place on Saturday. What to wear?! What to do?!
Did I also mention that he doesn’t drink alcohol and DOESN’T OWN A CELL PHONE?

He’s my very own Antiques Roadshow. A foreign, ridiculously good looking episode of Antiques Roadshow.