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"

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.