Where's MY TV Show?!

After my last post, which was, like, 500K and 9 million words, I'm going to keep this one short.

I need Beyonce to sit her mediocre behind down.

I know, I know, it's Black History Month, and I'm supposed to be supporting can-do black folks. But, um, there are two things I will not condone:

1. Beyonce being tapped to play political blacktivist Angela Davis in an upcoming film about the Black Panter Party. Um, wtf?!


Why do people insist that Beyonce can act? Dreamgirls wasn't any work--she played the pretty girl in a pop group who was made into a star by a domineering manager--can we say "biopic"? I don't even come close to getting it.

Luckily, I'm not the only one. JJSiii brought the following article to my attention:

At Last....Beyonce's Gonna Get Her Ass Whooped

Apparently Miss Etta James wasn't too pleased about Beyonce being chose to sing her song at the inauguration--and, while B sounded good, I totally feel Etta on this one. Homegirl made that song, and she's still alive and kicking! There's no good reason they couldn't have had Etta get up there and take 'em to church like she knows how to do. I think they only used Beyonce to promote her role as Etta in an upcoming film.

Again, why do they do this?! As a blacktress, it hurts to find that the only two women being given roles are Beyonce and "I HATE NEW YORK."

Seriously, not only did the crazy muppet have her own tv show for THREE SEASONS, but this brings me to the second thing I will not condone:

She will be appearing in an all-black touring production of The Vagina Monologues. Check out what my favorite gossip girl Blondie NYC found out:

New York says: “It’s kind of a serious actress type thingy and that’s what I’m striving to be.”

She later adds, “I really want to kind of lend my voice and let people see that I’m there and I’m focused and I want to be a part of it.”

If New York's vag had a monologue it'd say "Ow."

This is a hot-ass mess of the hottest degree.

Okay, I'm done now. Call me later, k?

Bad, Bad Blacktress!

I am a terrible abolitionist.

I know it's 4 days into Black History Month and I haven't posted a damn thing. You've probably been sitting at your computers, waiting on my hard-hitting thesis on black culture in our new Obama age. Or maybe you were hoping for an interview with Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin, asking him why the hell he had to go f shit up and make slavery fun for people.
Unfortunately, Eli wouldn't return my calls.

Even more unfortunately, not a soul in good ol' Sydney town knows what Black History Month is, so it's not like there are any TV specials or kids with school assignments asking me what it means to be black, like me. Or, for that matter, anyone sitting around reading the book "Black Like Me" (educate yourself to this reality). This, coupled with the 80-degree February weather has me all confused and forgetful. The most black-related things I've gotten is a series of puns from a music producer friend of mine. They include:

blacklash (we all know i've been there)
blaccent
blackground check
blaccident--"for when daddy forgot to strap up." I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean.

Clearly I'm lacking and slacking. However, I do enjoy using the phrase, "You can't blackmail this black male!" when faced with opposition.

Luckily, the Persian Excursion is on the case, repping a different unsung black hero every day of BHM. Check it out here.

To be fair, I've been partially behind cause I was wrapped up in my redheaded lover, who landed in New York City mere hours ago (Nothing like some white folks to make you forget all about your month of empowerment ;). Since his departure there has been crying on my part--for more info, see the next post.


Oh, and this is random, but I thought I should share:

The resemblance is too uncanny. Homegirl is part cray cray AND part muppet!

Jennifer Hudson Has to Give Her Oscar Back

Um, as many of you probably know by now, blacktress and Oscar winner Jennifer Hudson is engaged to David Otunga, a young black Harvard-educated lawyer. This would be quite exciting and precious if only David had not been a contestant on I LOVE NEW YORK.
I think we all know from previous posts, how I feel about New York (aka Tiffany Pollard).
If you don't, here's the basics: she's a tranny hot mess who is one of the reasons black people can't have nice things.

David--known as Punk on the show--made it pretty far along, professing his love to New York and even welling with tears when he was rejected. He was fired from his job for appearing on the show (whether he just took too many vacation days or his firm was simply as embarrassed by his antics, I don't know--but the results are the same).

How the hell could J-Hud do this to me--and to blacktresses everywhere?! They couldn't have been together more than a year and a half, so even if he wasn't a spotlight-seeking fool willing to do anything for the cameras, I'd give them little chance of success. But the fact that this man appeared on national television and signed a "blood oaf"--yes, "oaf" is how New York pronounced it--saying that he was "here for New York" just breaks Sojourner's spirit.

What do you think J-Hud is thinking? How do you think he explained himself to her on their first dates? When someone brings up his reality-show past, does she allow him to speak of it? I get that he's a body builder and all, and he's edjumucated, but the whole "I Love New York" thing is probably the biggest red flag a man could ever wave--am I right?

I don't know, this just depresses me a little.



Effie White, how could you do this to me?! This was worse than that time you got knocked up by Jamie Foxx's character and cut off communication with the other dreamgirls!!!

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.

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"