Just wanted to share a great clip from one of my favorite comics, Hari Kondabolu. No better way to celebrate BHM with a man who always speaks truth to power.
Showing posts with label Slavery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Slavery. Show all posts
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Friday, March 11, 2011
I Feel Like Lady Gaga
Let me explain.
So, last year LG did a concert at Madison Square Garden, and one of her many magical grotesque diva moments involved her pretending she’s Tinkerbell—ugh, there’s no way I can describe a GAGA moment. Roll the tape (start at :30):
I never thought I’d say this, but I totally get where she’s coming from. I NEED THE BLOG!!!!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT THE FORUM FOR EXPRESSING MY INANITY!!!!
My dearest blog darlings, how I’ve missed you (or, I guess, missed myself writing to you?)!!! I’m blogging to you now with one hand after having minor surgery on my left wrist on Monday. It was local anesthesia, and I was out in 15 minutes, but having three needles poked into your hand as a burly, ethnically ambiguous doctor asks, “Are you gonna pass out?” isn’t exactly a party on fountain. I’m on the mend, but have been trying not to aggravate it, which means I’m hunting and pecking on the keyboard like the keyboardist in Flock of Seagulls. As if I wasn’t bored enough on the plantation, it’s taking me thrice* as long to do everything! It’s really put a cramp in my bloggery, and there’s really so much to share.
Let me begin with the information that I’ve been bursting to share since Tuesday.
Monday night, when I was hepped up on painkillers and realizing I’d poorly planned this surgery, I decided to console myself with a documentary on genetic anomalies, which you know that always brightens my spirits. I turned on the boob tube just in time to catch “My Child is a Monkey”—score! I tucked in, expecting to learn about a Mogley-esque child who learned the bare necessities in a third-world country (I swear, the anomalies are almost always in the third world) and drift of too sleep with the knowledge that things weren’t so bad in my one-handed world.
My dear readers, what I witnessed on my television screen was more terrifying than any episode of “born without a face” or “to catch a predator” and a hotter mess than all three seasons of Teen Mom. The documentary wasn’t about children raised by animals or children with some sort of animal feature—it was about White women who adopt monkeys and raise them as children!!!
No, these women aren’t Michael Jackson-level wealthy. These chimps do not walk the red carpet with Brooke Shields. These are regular-ass middle aged members of Caucasia (yes, I said it!) who spend thousands of dollars on an animal that should not be domesticated, plucking it from its mother just days after birth only to put it in a diaper and stick it in a cage for the rest of its life—which can be upwards of 40 years.
Why would people do this? Why is this an actual acceptable business? Do you think it’s because slavery’s now illegal and Caucasians love to cage something? (not you, my readers—but you know some of your people are a hot mess!) As a leathery-skinned middle-aged British woman rode to a Capuchin monkey breeder in Virginia, she talked about how nervous and excited she was, and I’ve never wanted to punch my television set more. As that cute little monkey clung to the stuffed animal they’d put him on (no doubt to make him appear more infant-like), I felt like a misspent youth in a movie theater watching a horror flick. “RUN, RUN, MONKEY!!! THAT WHITE LADY COMIN FO’ YO’ ASS!!!” I screamed. As she and the breeder laugh at the fact that the monkeys know their babies will be taken and the woman hands over $5,500 in cash (in this economy?!), I was about ready to cut a bitch.
Y’all, I can’t do it justice. Here’s a clip (the British woman starts at 8:50):
She named her monkey George. How tacky.
I feel like even the narrator is judging—can’t you hear it in her voice?
It was when we cut to “Monkey Whisperer” Lisa, who helps domesticate the monkeys (called ‘monKIDS’—yes, y’all!) that I almost had a stroke. As Lisa exited the airport with her monkey on her back, I wished it was metaphorical. Two passersby stopped to coo at the animal. “Is he your pet?” one of the girls asked. “No, he’s not my pet, he’s my partner for life,” said Lisa.
OH HELL TO THE NO! Partner for life?! What kind of partner requires you to wipe their ass for the next 40 years? If that’s love, I’d like to pass right now. And Lisa’s just rubbing the monkey’s butt, trying to make it callous so that he gets used to diapers, and has the nerve to say, “It’s not cruel what we’re doing. The mothers jump with them on their back from tree to tree.”
Um, you’re not a monkey mom, you’re a random lady with monster claws trying to harden up his butt.
Y’all, this is like Losing Isaiah x 100.
Okay, y’all, there’s even more to report, but it’s taken me over an hour to write this and I’m sure your eyes have glazed over (or you’re now watching every Lady Gaga YouTube clip you can find). I’ll fill you in on the latest mama drama and the one-year anniversary of Blacktress and Jewboo later!!!
Glad I'm not a Monkey Mom!
-Blacktress
*can we make that word? Let’s get Merriam Webster on the horn.
So, last year LG did a concert at Madison Square Garden, and one of her many magical grotesque diva moments involved her pretending she’s Tinkerbell—ugh, there’s no way I can describe a GAGA moment. Roll the tape (start at :30):
I never thought I’d say this, but I totally get where she’s coming from. I NEED THE BLOG!!!!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT THE FORUM FOR EXPRESSING MY INANITY!!!!
My dearest blog darlings, how I’ve missed you (or, I guess, missed myself writing to you?)!!! I’m blogging to you now with one hand after having minor surgery on my left wrist on Monday. It was local anesthesia, and I was out in 15 minutes, but having three needles poked into your hand as a burly, ethnically ambiguous doctor asks, “Are you gonna pass out?” isn’t exactly a party on fountain. I’m on the mend, but have been trying not to aggravate it, which means I’m hunting and pecking on the keyboard like the keyboardist in Flock of Seagulls. As if I wasn’t bored enough on the plantation, it’s taking me thrice* as long to do everything! It’s really put a cramp in my bloggery, and there’s really so much to share.
Let me begin with the information that I’ve been bursting to share since Tuesday.
Monday night, when I was hepped up on painkillers and realizing I’d poorly planned this surgery, I decided to console myself with a documentary on genetic anomalies, which you know that always brightens my spirits. I turned on the boob tube just in time to catch “My Child is a Monkey”—score! I tucked in, expecting to learn about a Mogley-esque child who learned the bare necessities in a third-world country (I swear, the anomalies are almost always in the third world) and drift of too sleep with the knowledge that things weren’t so bad in my one-handed world.
My dear readers, what I witnessed on my television screen was more terrifying than any episode of “born without a face” or “to catch a predator” and a hotter mess than all three seasons of Teen Mom. The documentary wasn’t about children raised by animals or children with some sort of animal feature—it was about White women who adopt monkeys and raise them as children!!!
No, these women aren’t Michael Jackson-level wealthy. These chimps do not walk the red carpet with Brooke Shields. These are regular-ass middle aged members of Caucasia (yes, I said it!) who spend thousands of dollars on an animal that should not be domesticated, plucking it from its mother just days after birth only to put it in a diaper and stick it in a cage for the rest of its life—which can be upwards of 40 years.
Why would people do this? Why is this an actual acceptable business? Do you think it’s because slavery’s now illegal and Caucasians love to cage something? (not you, my readers—but you know some of your people are a hot mess!) As a leathery-skinned middle-aged British woman rode to a Capuchin monkey breeder in Virginia, she talked about how nervous and excited she was, and I’ve never wanted to punch my television set more. As that cute little monkey clung to the stuffed animal they’d put him on (no doubt to make him appear more infant-like), I felt like a misspent youth in a movie theater watching a horror flick. “RUN, RUN, MONKEY!!! THAT WHITE LADY COMIN FO’ YO’ ASS!!!” I screamed. As she and the breeder laugh at the fact that the monkeys know their babies will be taken and the woman hands over $5,500 in cash (in this economy?!), I was about ready to cut a bitch.
Y’all, I can’t do it justice. Here’s a clip (the British woman starts at 8:50):
She named her monkey George. How tacky.
I feel like even the narrator is judging—can’t you hear it in her voice?
It was when we cut to “Monkey Whisperer” Lisa, who helps domesticate the monkeys (called ‘monKIDS’—yes, y’all!) that I almost had a stroke. As Lisa exited the airport with her monkey on her back, I wished it was metaphorical. Two passersby stopped to coo at the animal. “Is he your pet?” one of the girls asked. “No, he’s not my pet, he’s my partner for life,” said Lisa.
OH HELL TO THE NO! Partner for life?! What kind of partner requires you to wipe their ass for the next 40 years? If that’s love, I’d like to pass right now. And Lisa’s just rubbing the monkey’s butt, trying to make it callous so that he gets used to diapers, and has the nerve to say, “It’s not cruel what we’re doing. The mothers jump with them on their back from tree to tree.”
Um, you’re not a monkey mom, you’re a random lady with monster claws trying to harden up his butt.
Y’all, this is like Losing Isaiah x 100.
Okay, y’all, there’s even more to report, but it’s taken me over an hour to write this and I’m sure your eyes have glazed over (or you’re now watching every Lady Gaga YouTube clip you can find). I’ll fill you in on the latest mama drama and the one-year anniversary of Blacktress and Jewboo later!!!
Glad I'm not a Monkey Mom!
-Blacktress
*can we make that word? Let’s get Merriam Webster on the horn.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A Black History Month Present From Me to You
My only problem with this is that I'm not in it.
(You all know how I feel about Harriet getting all the glory.)
(You all know how I feel about Harriet getting all the glory.)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Temporary Insanity
Blacktress' Log, Star Date 12 February 2009.
Yesterday I got a phone call from Oliver, from Escalibre, a temp agency I'd signed up with over a month ago. I had my initial interview with Oliver, a dreamy blonde Brit with a dry humour. Most of our 50-minute interview just involved cracking jokes and talking about my time in Sydney thus far.
After getting mad bored with no temp gigs showing up, I started stalking Oliver much in the manner of a schoolgirl who has just lost her virginity to an asshole jock. I called regularly, trying to sound breezy, but subtly pressuring him for any job offers. Like the cool cad he is, he would totally make a couple of funnies, get me all comfortable, then take an emotional scythe to my throat as he told me there were no jobs available.
I finally realized that I couldn't force him to love me--I mean, find me work. So I decided to play it cool. And it turns out that good things do come to those who wait. And it is darkest before the dawn, and all that other crap.
I got a call to come in and work for a prominent cruise ship company, which will remain nameless just in case someone on staff likes to Google him/her/hirself when no one's looking. Of course, when I was first told I'd be working for a cruiseline, my reaction was two fold:
1. Will I be performing great diva hits on the Lido deck nightly at 7pm? I'll do anything but Etta James, as she's liable to cut a blacktress.
2. Ship...ship...ship...why does that fill me with dread? Oh yeah--SLAVERY!!!
Where are you taking me, Oliver?!
Clearly I overreacted.
I got in today at 10:30 am, where I was greeted by a smiley HR woman, who found it funny that I didn't want to look at my ID photo before it was printed. I mean, hello, business casual and chunky sweater--what's there to see? Any way you slice it, it's a hot mess.
I was then handed over to Sarah, who doesn't look a day over 12. In fact, she looks like a kewpie doll.
Imagine this doll dressed in a cardigan and A-line skirt, and give her a ponytail. That's my boss.
Luckily, she's as sweet as she looks and today was pretty low-key, which was good. Of course being a member of the talented tenth, work was crazily easy, and I found myself wanting to check my email during a lull.
After typing in gmail.com, I was greeted with the most heinous image I have ever seen:
WTF?!
How the hell am I supposed to get through my day without gmail?! I got in at 10:45, had a 45-minute lunch, was practically kicked out at 5:15pm, and still got everything done that had piled up. Without the ability to procrastinate and psychoanalyze every letter of every email from Fred Weasley, I'm going to have to actually work. Quickly and efficiently.
Ew.
Then they'll realize I'm kind of bright and probably give me responsibilities or something.
This is not what I signed on for!
So, I'm calling out to you, readers. What can I do to procrastinate just enough that they don't want me to do extra things? Maybe I'll just stay up really late and go in so tired and lame that every task actually ends up taking 2 hours to complete.
Questions, comments, suggestions?
Yesterday I got a phone call from Oliver, from Escalibre, a temp agency I'd signed up with over a month ago. I had my initial interview with Oliver, a dreamy blonde Brit with a dry humour. Most of our 50-minute interview just involved cracking jokes and talking about my time in Sydney thus far.
After getting mad bored with no temp gigs showing up, I started stalking Oliver much in the manner of a schoolgirl who has just lost her virginity to an asshole jock. I called regularly, trying to sound breezy, but subtly pressuring him for any job offers. Like the cool cad he is, he would totally make a couple of funnies, get me all comfortable, then take an emotional scythe to my throat as he told me there were no jobs available.
I finally realized that I couldn't force him to love me--I mean, find me work. So I decided to play it cool. And it turns out that good things do come to those who wait. And it is darkest before the dawn, and all that other crap.
I got a call to come in and work for a prominent cruise ship company, which will remain nameless just in case someone on staff likes to Google him/her/hirself when no one's looking. Of course, when I was first told I'd be working for a cruiseline, my reaction was two fold:
1. Will I be performing great diva hits on the Lido deck nightly at 7pm? I'll do anything but Etta James, as she's liable to cut a blacktress.
2. Ship...ship...ship...why does that fill me with dread? Oh yeah--SLAVERY!!!
Where are you taking me, Oliver?!
Clearly I overreacted.
I got in today at 10:30 am, where I was greeted by a smiley HR woman, who found it funny that I didn't want to look at my ID photo before it was printed. I mean, hello, business casual and chunky sweater--what's there to see? Any way you slice it, it's a hot mess.
I was then handed over to Sarah, who doesn't look a day over 12. In fact, she looks like a kewpie doll.
Imagine this doll dressed in a cardigan and A-line skirt, and give her a ponytail. That's my boss.
Luckily, she's as sweet as she looks and today was pretty low-key, which was good. Of course being a member of the talented tenth, work was crazily easy, and I found myself wanting to check my email during a lull.
After typing in gmail.com, I was greeted with the most heinous image I have ever seen:
ACCESS DENIED
BLOCKED BY SURFCONTROL.
BLOCKED BY SURFCONTROL.
WTF?!
How the hell am I supposed to get through my day without gmail?! I got in at 10:45, had a 45-minute lunch, was practically kicked out at 5:15pm, and still got everything done that had piled up. Without the ability to procrastinate and psychoanalyze every letter of every email from Fred Weasley, I'm going to have to actually work. Quickly and efficiently.
Ew.
Then they'll realize I'm kind of bright and probably give me responsibilities or something.
This is not what I signed on for!
So, I'm calling out to you, readers. What can I do to procrastinate just enough that they don't want me to do extra things? Maybe I'll just stay up really late and go in so tired and lame that every task actually ends up taking 2 hours to complete.
Questions, comments, suggestions?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Black History Month All Year Round
Hey Guys,
For your viewing pleasure, here's a live version of Sojourner's stand-up show during Black History Month. Topics include:
Slavery
Gentrification
Ps in Vs Without Cs
I hope you enjoy.
Oh, and remember: it's comedy. Let's not get our panties in a twist.
Part 2:
For your viewing pleasure, here's a live version of Sojourner's stand-up show during Black History Month. Topics include:
Slavery
Gentrification
Ps in Vs Without Cs
I hope you enjoy.
Oh, and remember: it's comedy. Let's not get our panties in a twist.
Part 2:
Friday, July 13, 2007
UnderPaid Negroes
As you all know, I am a blacktress. I use this term because unlike your every day actress, who is seized with low self-esteem, competition from other actresses, and the need to be perfect, I am also darker than a paper bag and 3/5 of a woman. This often means that when I audition for parts I play some marginal character-- perhaps a stepparent, an old wizened woman, or wicked witch (or otherwise "dark" character).
I know there are a dearth of roles available for blacktors and blacktresses. As well as Asian-tresses? And Latinators? No, that won't work-- it sounds like some kind of dinosaur.
Anyway, I'm done bitching. I am going to DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. As you also know, I am a woman of color and a writer. And I am currently working on a television series that will not only give black actors much-needed roles, but allow them to appear on screen with White actors.
My show is a prime-time drama that will be set in antebellum South. Think "Grey's Anatomy" + "Roots." It will star Isaiah Washington as a gay slave (the man needs to do some damage control).
Okay, okay. Cool your jets. I'm hoping to pitch this to UPN-- a.k.a "Under-Paid Negroes,"* the network that brought us such great black sitcoms as "Half and Half," and "Homeboys in Outerspace."
I will give you a brief excerpt from the shooting script. Picture this:
EXT. Plantation Field. Day.
RUFUS, A young black teen picks cotton in the hot southern sun. He furtively looks around. He sees the MASTER, an attractive young White man (ideally played by Shia Lebouf) looking off in the opposite direction. He turns to his sister DELILAH, a younger black girl, who is picking nearby.
RUFUS
Delilah, keep a look out. Watch Massa.
DELILAH
Rufus, don't you get us in trouble. Celie's still sore from the last whoopin'!
RUFUS
I just need to take a peek.
Delilah rolls her eyes, but says nothing. She looks over at the MASTER. Rufus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a copy of The Devil Wears Prada. HE READS A PAGE!!!!
Meanwhile, MASTER/Shia Lebouf catches Delilah's eye. She turns away, then turns quickly back. He gives a small smile. Her cousin, CELIE, who is on the other side of her, chuckles as he saunters towards them.
CELIE
Hmmmm---mmmh. Massa McDreamy comin' over here!
DELILAH
Shut up, Celie!
(to Rufus)
Put that away boy, before you get yo' butt beat!
MASTER McDREAMY/SHIA LEBOUF reaches Delilah. He approaches her closely. Sketchily. She shrinks in. A slight girl (obviously underfed cause she's a SLAVE), she is pubescent and has a crush. This is not the first time he has approached her.
I know there are a dearth of roles available for blacktors and blacktresses. As well as Asian-tresses? And Latinators? No, that won't work-- it sounds like some kind of dinosaur.
Anyway, I'm done bitching. I am going to DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. As you also know, I am a woman of color and a writer. And I am currently working on a television series that will not only give black actors much-needed roles, but allow them to appear on screen with White actors.
My show is a prime-time drama that will be set in antebellum South. Think "Grey's Anatomy" + "Roots." It will star Isaiah Washington as a gay slave (the man needs to do some damage control).
Okay, okay. Cool your jets. I'm hoping to pitch this to UPN-- a.k.a "Under-Paid Negroes,"* the network that brought us such great black sitcoms as "Half and Half," and "Homeboys in Outerspace."
I will give you a brief excerpt from the shooting script. Picture this:
EXT. Plantation Field. Day.
RUFUS, A young black teen picks cotton in the hot southern sun. He furtively looks around. He sees the MASTER, an attractive young White man (ideally played by Shia Lebouf) looking off in the opposite direction. He turns to his sister DELILAH, a younger black girl, who is picking nearby.
RUFUS
Delilah, keep a look out. Watch Massa.
DELILAH
Rufus, don't you get us in trouble. Celie's still sore from the last whoopin'!
RUFUS
I just need to take a peek.
Delilah rolls her eyes, but says nothing. She looks over at the MASTER. Rufus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a copy of The Devil Wears Prada. HE READS A PAGE!!!!
Meanwhile, MASTER/Shia Lebouf catches Delilah's eye. She turns away, then turns quickly back. He gives a small smile. Her cousin, CELIE, who is on the other side of her, chuckles as he saunters towards them.
CELIE
Hmmmm---mmmh. Massa McDreamy comin' over here!
DELILAH
Shut up, Celie!
(to Rufus)
Put that away boy, before you get yo' butt beat!
MASTER McDREAMY/SHIA LEBOUF reaches Delilah. He approaches her closely. Sketchily. She shrinks in. A slight girl (obviously underfed cause she's a SLAVE), she is pubescent and has a crush. This is not the first time he has approached her.
MASTER/SHIA LEBOUF
Sure is hot out here. Ain't it, Delilah?
DELILAH
Sho' is.
(pause. unsure. she takes a breath)
You... um. You got some water?
MASTER
(loudly, putting on a show)
How dare you ask me for water!
(he moves to strike her and she flinches. He stops himself and whispers in her ear)
Sorry, I left my nalgene in the wagon. I'll come by your quarters after supper.
(His eye catches Rufus, who is furtively reading his book)
What you got there, Rufus?
Rufus stuffs the book into his pocket.
Sure is hot out here. Ain't it, Delilah?
DELILAH
Sho' is.
(pause. unsure. she takes a breath)
You... um. You got some water?
MASTER
(loudly, putting on a show)
How dare you ask me for water!
(he moves to strike her and she flinches. He stops himself and whispers in her ear)
Sorry, I left my nalgene in the wagon. I'll come by your quarters after supper.
(His eye catches Rufus, who is furtively reading his book)
What you got there, Rufus?
Rufus stuffs the book into his pocket.
RUFUS
Oh, nothing, Massa.
So that's just an excerpt people. What will happen next? Will Rufus's attempt at literacy be discovered? How long can Delilah and McDreamy's affair last? I think you know the world needs to see the next installment of "I Don't Cotton To It." This fall. On Under-Paid Negroes.
The tagline? SLAVES: THE MOST UNDERPAID OF ALL.
(Shia is clearly looking over his property, and Isaiah is saying, "Shh. Don't use the 'F' word.")
* (UPN recently changed its name to "My9," which is clearly indicative of the desperate need of negroes to have OWNERSHIP after being OWNED!!!!)
Oh, nothing, Massa.
So that's just an excerpt people. What will happen next? Will Rufus's attempt at literacy be discovered? How long can Delilah and McDreamy's affair last? I think you know the world needs to see the next installment of "I Don't Cotton To It." This fall. On Under-Paid Negroes.
The tagline? SLAVES: THE MOST UNDERPAID OF ALL.
(Shia is clearly looking over his property, and Isaiah is saying, "Shh. Don't use the 'F' word.")* (UPN recently changed its name to "My9," which is clearly indicative of the desperate need of negroes to have OWNERSHIP after being OWNED!!!!)
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