This is Getting Ri-Goddamn-diculous!

Hey friends,

I arrived on the plantation today to find many emails in my inbox. Other than the usual Groupons and SPAM, there were emails from random "brokers" and "apartment owners" on craigslist asking for way too much information before setting up an appt to view an apartment. That's not the point of this post, though.

At the very top of my inbox was an email--nay, I'll call it an ALERT--from Scribe about the latest happenings inside Caucasia. It included a link to the following news item:

Look at all their smiles.....I feel like this is a nightmare from Kunta Kinte's Book of Dreams.*^

Her email was titled, "some cray from CauCRAYsia"--certainly an understatement.
For the full story, click here.

Less than six months ago I came to you with news about Sweden's racism. It pains me to be repeating myself, but I can't hide this racist light under a bullshit bushel. Guys, this is the minister of culture shown here.

In an attempt to get more information, I've been reading comments about the article. No, not because commenters are geniuses--or even articulate--but because I want to get a sense of how this is being received in the country in which it took place. Here are some interesting nuggets:

Wanggren writes:
Liljeroth is a member of MODERATERNA, the Swedish conservative party, not 'the left'. She's pretty much the opposite of 'the left' in all possible ways. It is currently the conservatives who are in majority in the Swedish government.

LiberalenDieter says:
The true racists are those who care about the skincolor of the cake. If you aren't a racist and sexist, you just see human beeings and don't care about skin color or gender.

An American gal (and likely liberal-arts-college graduate) speaks truth to power:

The reason why this is something to complain about is because of how historically marginalized peoples have been negatively portrayed in the media as comical and savage subhumans. The minstrel figure has long been utilized to degrade certain groups of people. Also, as a woman, she should understand what a degrading, oppressive, and misogynistic practice genital mutilation is, and thus, she should be ashamed for making light of such an atrocity against women's rights.

To which a Scandinavian fella replied:

You are a brainwashed one, aren't you?

[Good lord. This one probably thinks that slavery and the Holocaust never really happened and is a huge Mel Gibson fan.]

Here's a particularly incendiary back-and-forth:

Another commenter writes:
Sensationalist rubbish. Seriously... Its an art day. Grow up. Talk about twisting a story to sensationalize it.

Um, I'm not clear on how the fact that this is part of "World Art Day" makes it less offensive and inappropriate. I mean, guys--a bunch of white people smiling over an African cake as they devour it just takes the idea of "consumption of the other" to a while new level. Regardless of intent, implications can't be denied. These are supposed to be a group of educated--and decision-making/policy-creating people. I refuse to believe that nobody on staff said something. I imagine it would have gone something like this:

[Anyone With a Brain taps higher-up's shoulder, interrupting a conversation between him and another person.]

Anyone With a Brain: Lise. Jorgen. Um, the World Art Day cake arrived a few minutes ago.
Lise: Great!
Jorgen: Wheel it out!
AWAB: I....don't think that's such a good idea.....I know this is meant to be a work of art, but I think that this is going to be bad publicity.
Lise and Jorgen: Why?
AWAB: It's a cake depicting an African woman--or some sort of traditional tribal statue.

Lise: Oh, that sounds so creative.

[A beat. AWAB wonders how to proceed.]

AWAB: The inside is red velvet.
Jorgen: I love red velvet cake!
AWAB: But don't you think it's a bit....gauche?
Lise: Well, is it masterfully executed?
AWAB: It is--which I think is part of what makes it so off--
Jorgen: Nonsense! I'm sure that, after submitting multiple budgets for this event, selecting an artist to create the cake and going over his plans before giving him the go-ahead to make it, the creation is completely in line with the event and the goals of our organization. In fact, I think it would be even more fitting if the minister of culture was the one to cut the first slice!

Lise: I love it! I'll make sure to get tons of media coverage.

[Anyone With a Brain slinks off, clearly uncomfortable.]

*now in paperback. Soon to be directed by Ed Burns.

^This is not a real thing.

Guys, I have to tell you about this rando show I did last night.*

*[Balls--I wrote this yesterday (Thurs) and thought I'd hit send.]

I did a set at a cabaret-type club as part of an inaugural “musical comedy variety show.”

Friends, let me let you in on a little “industry secret”: Comedy and music don’t mix very well, and stand-ups hate doing ‘variety’ shows. No one who is interested in either—or both—wants to view them at the same time. They require two different modes of engaging, one of which is passive and the other is much more of a dialogue. Basically, my point is, I was ready for it to be very awkward and uncomfortable. Add to that my lack of sleep and the small crowd, and it was really anybody’s game.

[Sidebar: Ugh, my coworker is trying to get us to pitch in to buy wedding gifts for two of our coworkers who are getting married (not to each other). I’m still pissed off about the waste of money that was The Yankee Swap. These people don’t pay me enough to waste my money. Besides, you’re about to marry the person you love more than anything and take three weeks off of work—as far as I’m concerned, you need to be getting me a consolation prize!]

Anyway, back to the show:
The order was: music – stand-up (a young Caucasian) – music – special musical guest – music – Sojourner – music.

The music was amazing. Although the mastermind behind it all was a delicate Canadian, white as the freshly driven show, she had some serious soul. It was like she got a shaman to steal the voices of Sarah Vaughn and Etta James. I went up to her and her bass player afterward and asked them what was in the water in British Columbia that made the youth so soulful. (Bass player posited it was animal urine. Oh, Canucks!)

It was a great show, but by the time I got on stage—following a jazz rendition of The Cardigans hit “Lovefool” (which was AMAZING)—I was damn-near asleep and thought I’d be a hot mess. The band was onstage during the set, so I had to make inappropriate comments to them, of course. I also dropped a lot of TRUTH BOMBS that they’re weren’t ready for, like the popularity of the Swedish dessert niggerbollen. After about three minutes, I just looked at the audience and said, “THIS IS HOW I DO, Y’ALL. GET IN IT TO WIN IT OR CHOOSE TO LOSE.”

It actually wasn’t that bad of a set, considering the small, jazz-loving crowd. I was accosted by two audience members post-show, which is always a sign of success. One of them was a cute fashionista (seriously; she worked in fashion) and the other was an honest-to-goodness CauCRAYsian.

Guys, I don’t know how to describe him. He just sort of happened to me. He came to the show late—about a minute into my set—and even if it had been crowded, he would have been impossible to miss. With long, thin brown hair (parted down the middle), large Hollywood-royalty sunglasses (yes, he wore them indoors), a floor-length Neo-like coat, and an ascot, he was like Ozzie Osbourne’s whimsical younger brother. He cracked up during my set, and as I was making my way to the door, he stopped me in my tracks.

“YOU!” he said, grabbing my face. “Darling, Darling, Darling!!!” He really enjoying rolling his r’s. I laughed, but before I could say anything, he leans in with his pillowy lips to kiss me on the mouth.
WHAT. THE. FUCK?!

I manage to turn my head (his grip was strong), saying, “Didn’t you pay attention to the words that were coming out of my mouth?! I have a Jewboo now and I’m a classy lady!”
He then plays it off in top form, saying, “Oh, yes, that is good. That was a test and you passed. We can now be friends.”
He then tells me that he loved “Caucasia” because he is Georgian—as in, from Georgia, aka the Caucasus region of Europe/Asia. Guys, he is FROM THE CAUCUS MOUNTAINS. HE IS AN ORIGINAL CAUCASIAN!

He then goes on to tell me that, if you were to talk to a Russian, they’d refer to him as “the name of those Swedish balls.” Apparently, the Georgians are looked down upon. Between his minority status and Caucasian roots, he decided we were best friends. He refused to let go of me and demanded I accompany him to Marie’s Crisis, a basement piano bar where everyone’s a diva. I explained that I had to go. of course, there was a time not so long ago, when I would have hung out with this random pillowy-lipped, likely herpetic Georgia until 4am, just for the 10 minutes of material later on.

But I’m a new woman, with chronic fatigue, a tender lover, and a penchant for baked goods. Oh, and I’m now a blogger for a movie website! Check it out.

News From the Belly of the Beast

Y’all, I just got some serious intel from the heart of Caucasia and I need to spread the word. Remember how I gave my friend a cheat sheet in preparation for her trip to Sweden? Well, she’s been there a few weeks now and it seems that even I couldn’t prepare her for the madness inside CauCRAYsia. I have to share because, living in a buzzing multi-culti metropolis or being able to handle Sojo’s troofs, it’s so easy to forget that white folks still be trippin’—even the ones with universal healthcare! Here’s the latest from inside:

Apparently, organizers of a “slave auction” at Lund University in April will not be held responsible for their actions because it was “a costume party.”

WHAT IS WRONG WITH WHITE PEOPLE?????????!?!?!?!?!?!
White friends, I’m talkin’ to you—get me some answers! I know someone's letting something slip at the monthly mixers!

In the article “Lund Slave Auction Fallout”—I’m really hoping this was an error in translation, because “fallout” is just the understatement of the century—we learn that:

While Lund University in May announced that it would launch a new programme to educate students and staff about the university's core values, the university's disciplinary committee later elected to take no action after reviewing the incident.

Now, the district prosecutor has chosen not to file charges against the student organization for the staged auction.

”We can't prove that the people who dressed up did so with the intention to show contempt for a people. It was a costume party really, and that has to be considered in this case,” said district prosecutor and hate crimes specialist Mattias Larsson to local paper Sydsvenskan.

I don’t know what kind of specialist this fool is—I’m gonna need Stabler and Benson to get over there, because clearly Sweden's too busy letting the right one in to deal with the real issues.

Sweden WAS PART OF THE TRANSATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE, Y’ALL!!! Lund University students, if you don’t know, you better ask somebody! I suggest you start with one of your faculty members, Professor Dick Harrison, who lectures on the topic! In an interview on radiosweden.org back in 2007, he explained that:

Sweden's involvement in the slave trade was relatively small, but a new phase began in the late 18th century when the Swedish King Gustav III bought the West Indian island, Saint Barthelémy, from the French. He soon decided to turn it into a Swedish slave colony.
Dick Harrison says neither of the two waves were important for the economy on a national scale, but trafficking slaves across the Atlantic was a matter of national pride in Sweden. And even the church had no problem with it.
[more info—and sound clip—available here]

Post-racial, my ass.

Now, if this isn’t hubris, I don’t know what is:

After the incident, posters depicting [chairman of the National Afro-Swedish Association] Jallow Momodou in chains started appearing in several public places in Lund and at the Malmö University College.

Controversial artist Dan Park was later apprehended by police when found plastering his posters over central Lund. He was charged on Thursday with both hate speech and defamation.

Park told The Local on Friday that he thinks prosecutors are overreacting.

HOW IS THIS OKAY?????? Y’all, this is more limitless than Bradley Cooper. I can’t cope!!!

The posters appeared on the bulletin board of the university library and the text underneath read: “Our negro slave has run away.”

Momodou said, "For me it's proof that racism really exists in Sweden and is on a level comparable to the southern United States in the 1970s.” Y’all, he’s not even American and he knows this shit is straight-up Jim Crow. Don't get it twisted, y'all. We've gotta face the TRUTH that this shit is STILL GOING ON.

Of course, it's not like I was chased by a lynch mobs on the streets of Sverige, and my friend on the inside says she hasn't met anyone like these folks. But, dammit, this is just like T Perry--one bad apple ruins the bunch. Caucasia, if you want (me to say) nice things, get it together!

Now More Than Ever

Is how much I need to blog.

I just got back from round 1 of the dentist (remember how I have to put my teeth on layaway?) and my mouth is still numb. I can’t really talk, which you know is tantamount to oppression. I think the dentist gave me a bit too much novacaine, cause it’s over 3 hours later and I’m still feeling like Two-Faced. I guess I only have myself to blame, though—when he asked if I was allergic to anything, I said “just pain.” He’s a fun, Ken Jeong type of guy, so I can’t hate on him.

I am, however, hoping that my steady work even in the face of dental pain will be duly noted among my colleagues so that after my next long lunch, I can return with my head held high.

I’ve been slack in the blog world, mostly because I’m just a broke-down blacktress. And as my mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and no one will ever want to be your friend.” So, you know, I’m trying to zip my lip with the negativity. But I do want to draw your attention to some ch-ch-ch-changes:

CALENDAR OF UPCOMING SHOWS
So, it seems that the reason no one calls me is because they’re getting all the info on the internets. With that in mind, I’ve decided to do some cross-promotion on the blog. To the right (to the right, everything you own in the box to the right!) you’ll find a list of upcoming shows where I will be providing laughter to what I hope is an audience of likeminded freedom writers. You should totally come!

WRITERS STOPPED WRITIN’! :(
I had to remove a few names from my blogroll, folks. It’s not that I don’t love them, it’s that they don’t love the internet! Their blogs have ceased. I have, however, added a funny blog of random writings called Gutes Beispiel. You should read it. But not while you’re high—it’ll make your head explode.

A friend of mine recently left for a monthlong sojourn to Sweden and she came to the ultimate Sojourner for advice on navigating Caucasia. As someone who has been inside the belly of the beast and lived to tell, I was more than happy to impart some wisdom gleaned over several solo odysseys. Below is an excerpt from my email to her. Perhaps it will serve you well on your next international journey.

Caucasia Cheat Sheet

dictated but not read

Random "Facts":

• Swedes are kind, but curt. No dilly-dallying, no small talk in the shoppes--they'll say hi, they'll answer a question if you ask it, but they don't come up every 2 minutes, asking if you need help with stuff (which I LOVE).
• It's cold and dark--get up and at 'em early to do your thing before a tween vampire turns you into her lover.
• They don't really sell OTC things we're used to getting. So bring your Advil cold & sinus, cranberry supplements, and Nyquil.
• Sometimes the letter "K" is pronounced "Sh". So, you know, the signs advertising a "KOK" aren't as funny as we'd like them to be.
• There are no brown people, really. So fully expect to see:

White people with dreadlocks (guh)
People in blackface (not all the time, but, you know, it's not unheard of to attend a jungle-themed party and dress like "natives," including makeup.)

To make sure you don't end up in a pit of despair, I suggest bringing:

• A few of your favorite DVDs (or download to your comp)--maybe it was just Australia, but I had a hard time getting Netflix and Hulu out of the US, and even some YouTubes don't play when I was in Europe. Also, DVDs are coded by regions--a Swedish DVD won't play in your laptop. In those early days of jetlag and overwhelmed-ness, nothing takes the edge off like a couple seasons of Arrested Development.
• Cheat sheet of vocab words. It sounds silly, but having a list of foods really helped me when I was in Sweden, Paris, and Germany. Going to the grocery store or a restaurant, I didn't have such an intense breakdown because I knew which one was cake (kaka) and which one was pie (paj)--and I could order from a menu (many will be translated, though) without being scared a fish head would show up on my plate.
• I'd bring a towel, just so you have one that's yours. Of course, I always bring a washcloth, but being Caucasian yourself, perhaps that doesn't apply here.

Am I a Lovefool.... for Sweden?

Hello Readers,

I am blogging to you live from INSIDE CAUCASIA. The mood is tense--primarily because I can't really figure out how to type on this Swedish keyboard.

I am currently in Sankt Eriksplan, in Stockholm, but away from touristy stuff. I'm staying with a friend's cousin--and I think I have a mad girl-crush. I'm not sure if it was when we were looking for a pub and she referred to former party-hard self as a 'club fox,' or when she stole a poster advertising Britney Spears' upcoming Stockholm concert off of the subway wall, but all I know is, I'll never be the same again.

It was quite sunny and nice our first few days, but now Swedish weather has reared its ugly head--it's cold and rainy, and we decided instead of going to a pub or a club, it was better to rent a movie, drink Absolut pear flavored vodka with Fanta, and eat candy. You know, the logical alternative.

The movie was a Swedish film called 'Let the Right One In.' It involved tween human-vampire love and was surprisingly gory and random. It was also kind of tender, as it would be when 12-year-old Oskar asks his vampire lady friend if she "wants to go steady."
Nothing about this country is average! They are a cold people, still grappling with race issues, but also have a knack for design. I mean, it really is ingenius. I've stayed in a studio apartment with three other women and everyone's had a place to sleep! Talk about structure and space maximization!
I would expect no less from the people who brought us IKEA.

In fact, there heaps of things I can thank this cold nation for:
H&M
Ace of Base
The Cardigans (love me, love me, say that you love me!)
Beloved children's book character Pippi Longstocking
The Nobel Prize
Smorgasbords (heaps of all kinds of foods, meant to be eaten in order, from salty to sweet--brilliant!)
VIKINGS (I love to pillage and plunder)

However, I would have to ask someone about the whole 'active white supremacist population.' It makes me a bit scared to look some dudes in the eye.

Journey to the Center of CAUCASIA

In approximately 5 hours I will board a plane bound for Stockholm, Sweden, where I will spend 2 weeks. This will be plane number 14 in approximately 9 weeks. It will be my third journey into a different time zone. It will be frequent flyer miles 5,298,001-8,515,210.

I'm excited.
And fearful.

Not only will this be my first trip with one of my best friends--and the first time I've traveled with someone since developing my comfort and habits as a lone wolf/blackpacker--but I'll be in Scandinavia. The epicenter of Caucasian culture. Where pigment is a mere figment of the imagination!

I'm scared it's going to be very.... Village of the Damned.

AAAHHHH!!!! Inside Caucasia!

One friend said to me, "You go to the whitest vacation spots." Well, I'm sorry if this diminishes my 'negrosity,' but I believe that only by going deep inside Caucasia can I truly learn their ways. Like Nicholas Cage in Face/Off, I will go deep undercover--incognegro, if you will--and find out about Swedes. Packing list features:
-Hip boots, to combat the 40-degree temperatures.
-Sunglasses, to fend off the Swedish paparazzi who'll think I'm Michelle Obama.
-Eclipse, the third book in the Twilight series. After all, nothing prepares you for Caucasia like pasty vamps.
-The movie Juno, freshly uploaded onto my iPod. I'm not really sure why. Maybe cause it shows what trials and tribulations Caucasia can get through with a few smartly placed quips?


Okay, I'm off to finish packing and learn key Swedish phrases (such as "Do you have a girlfriend?" and "I'd like red wine, please"). Wish me luck! I hope to have hard-hitting news from my journey into the center of CAUCASIA* very soon.


*I hope my use of 'Caucasia' doesn't offend anyone. I mean, some of my best friends are White.

2009: The Year of the Hot Ass Mess?

I don't know if this is going to be my year, gang. I currently write this post in bed with my right foot elevated and in serious pain. I am also fighting the urge to obsessively check the facebook status of a certain Swedish zoo-friend because, you know, that would be stalkerish.

This year has gotten off to an awkward start, to say the least. It started out rather nicely, as I headed to North Sydney with some friends to a bbq/pool party at 6pm on NYE. I was dressed for an evening of tarting it up, and felt a bit awkward considering it was daytime, we were by the pool, and there were children present. The party was fun, hosted by a brilliant gay man who knows that the key to a good party is booze, booze, sausages and potato salad.

Around 10pm, I started itching to go see the fireworks in the city, even though I knew it would be madness. As someone who hates unruly crowds and is sometimes autistic, I thought this sudden urge was out of character, but must be entertained. Luckily, a lovely Brazilian couple at the party also wanted to go into the city, so we ventured off together.

We got down to The Rocks around 11:30 and after I found a port-a-loo, we saw the magical light show that is the fireworks off the Sydney Harbour Bridge at midnight. I was in a good mood. I was in Sydney, celebrating 2009, with no close friends around me, but I was content. I wasn't worried, I wasn't sad, and I wasn't disappointed. Perhaps the year would be all right after all.

Shortly after midnight I received a textual eruption from the Swede--let's call him Sven. He was at a friend's place nearby and asked if I wanted to meet up with them and head to a club. I was dying to wear my dress in an environment where it would be appreciated, and I wasn't tired, so I said yes. I started to walk back through the Rocks to get to his friend's place, where they were hanging out. As I went against the massive crowd, I bumped into someone and heard a glass bottle hit the ground. I looked down and saw that there was blood on the top of my foot.

At first, oddly enough, I thought maybe it wasn't blood because it was so red and bright and looked almost fake. Then, as it continued to flow, I thought it was someone else's blood, some gross party foul that resulted from too much drinking and silliness. Oddly enough, I wasn't even drunk, more just shocked and confused--and annoyed--by the turn of events.

So I was by myself, walking through the crowd, not sure what to do, as blood is flowing out of my foot like whoa. There's no way I can catch a cab home in this post-New Year's crowd, and because I'm bleeding so much, I thought I probably shouldn't be alone. I have no choice but to call Sven, who is the only person I know close by, and ask him to meet me. He and his friend say they're on their way, and I wait outside the Burberry store (gotta keep it classy, even in times of distress). As I'm waiting, I'm bleeding all over the sidewalk, and a woman and her bf stop and ask me if I'm okay. Not actually feeling pain from the cut and not seeing any glass, I was weirdly calm, and assured them I'd be all right and that I had friends coming. Meanwhile, crowds of people are walking by and totally grossed out and confused by the combination of factors: I'm in this hot dress, leaning against the wall, sighing and muttering to myself, much in the manner of a weary prostitute, and there's a blood pooling at my feet.

Soon after, some African guys come by, one of whom is a doctor, and they take out some disinfectant wipes and start applying pressure to the wound. They tell me to sit on the ground and elevate my foot to slow the bleeding.
"I can't sit on the sidewalk in this dress!!!" I protest as they lower me down.
The woman who originally found me tells a security guard to get an ambulance, and next thing you know, I'm in the back of an ambulance getting bandaged by a medic.

He says he sees no glass, but if I'm still bleeding in the morning, to go to get stitches. He was really nice, and really knew how to make a lady feel special. He said he hated blood, and when I joked that he was probably in the wrong line of work, he said, "but I like your blood, it's okay."

Um, paramedic boyfriend?! Holler at a (medical) scholar!

Just then, the Swede and his friend come over to the ambulance window. I'm done being bandaged, hop out, and the Swede lets me lean on his burly arm as we walk back to his friend's place. I apologized for taking them away from their party, but they were nice about it. Apparently, I sounded very calm on the phone, so they were quite surprised to arrive and find a pool of blood and an ambulance, but no me. Sven joked about how this "Really worked out in his favor," and that I could spend the night there.
It's amazing how a day at the zoo can create such a false intimacy.
Knowing I was wounded and immobile, I figured I'd just stay there anyway, but wasn't sure if anything would happen, given my wound. I also didn't really mind if anything didn't happen--I was just glad to be able to have someone around during my time of distress and just needed a place to chill.

We got back to his friend's apartment, where a small party was going on. His friend's girlfriend is American and really nice and we hit it off right away. Sven and I flirted as I sat on the couch with my foot elevated. At around 3:00am everyone headed off to another house party. Sven, who was off to Adelaide the next day, said he didn't want to go. I was oddly relaxed (maybe I'm finally adopting the Aussie way of life), and figured I'd stay, since I didn't want to walk around anyway, and enjoyed hanging out with him.

With the house empty, we sit on the couch and flip channels, finally settling on a Sex and the City marathon. We're making fun of episodes, I'm talking about New York City, we're both tipsy, but not out of control. He puts his hand on my leg and is holding my hand while we watch. It was a deadly combination. Physical contact plus Sex and the City! Ugh, SATC, how you mess with my mind! It gets me feeling all empowered and sexy-like.

Next thing you know, Sven kisses me and we're making out on the couch like two boy scouts at camp after lights out. I'm sitting on his lap and he suddenly carries me into his bedroom (hello strength and hotness!) where, well...you know how babies are made.....

There is sufficient post-coital cuddling, which feels really nice. I know he's heading off to Adelaide in the early evening, so I start to mildly panic at around 10:30am. Should I just get out of bed now and leave him alone, so as not to seem too interested? I mean, he's not a vampire and I have no interest in men--where is this all coming from? On the other hand, my foot was killing me and I really had nowhere else to be and didn't feel like sitting at home and being sad about being wounded.

So, when his friend asked if I wanted to go to lunch, I said yes. I mean, shit, he's had his p in my v--we can't go get a fucking burger now?

The walk to lunch was a bit too long for my wounded foot, and I spent it walking at a snail's pace and talking to the friend's girlfriend, who was really cool. I was consciously trying not to be in the way, or be clingy, but wondered why Sven was no longer showing love for the blacktress. I chalked it up to male idiocy, a possible hangover, and definite fatigue.

After lunch, dropped me off at a bus stop and Sven said he'd call me when he got back from Adelaide, but I'm not convinced.

I then came home, desperately in need of a shower, but unable to take one with my bandage. The pain was still intense and it looked as though I was still bleeding, so I decided to go to a medical centre. Unfortunately, I had no way of getting to the one that was open, and the one person who I knew lived near me with a car wasn't answering her phone. That lonely, helpless feeling kicked in and I became so frustrated. I got in touch with one person who said she'd give me a ride if I felt I needed to go. I was really grateful, but having already taken advantage of her kindness too many times, hoped I wouldn't have to impose again.

At around 3, my landlady called me downstairs and upon seeing my wound, offered to take me to the doctor. I felt so bad, but really appreciated it. At the doctor, I'm told I should have been stitched in the ambulance, and they couldn't do it now. Instead, they put on sticky tape to try and close the wound. He told me to stay off of it for two to three days, and gives me an antibiotic to take to get rid of any possible germs that could come from being cut open with a dirty beer bottle.

So I spent the remainder of the day with my foot up and feeling totally bored. Although this means I have three days off from work (yay!), I can't really do anything with this freedom (boo!)....except nurture a mild crush on a Swedish lawyer who is probably nothing more than good breeding stock.

Ugh, wtf, mates?! I am supposed to be a strong black woman, and yet in both mind and body, I have been weakened! What does this mean for the start of my year? I feel like a total idiot for sleeping with someone I have no future with, and have no distractions to stop me from thinking in such circles (why hasn't he texted to check in? will he actually call when he returns? why is it I can't keep a man's interest?--lame!)

So, as I sit here on the 2nd day of 2009, I feel a bit of dread, a dash of sadness, and a pinch of regret. I try not to believe in foreshadowing, but the series of events that took place were just so random and ridiculous on every level that I can't help but feel like 2009 is going to be the year of the Hot Mess.

Thank god I have inauguration day to look forward to.

Zoo for Two

(my titles are getting so bad, I know.)

Blacktress' Log, Star Date Monday, 29 December 2008.


Today I went to Taronga Zoo with a Swedish lawyer I met last night while at work. Talk about randomness!!

So, I went into my Sunday night shift determined to have energy (and buoyed by the fact that we close at 1am on Sundays), and got off to a decent start. I started at 6pm, and actually prefer the bar when it's relatively quiet and people come in to order food, have a beer, and just sit around. It's alot easier to get along with folks when you don't have to shout over music and they aren't working their ESL skills while blind drunk. It's at these hours that I can be my best, chatting up customers, making them laugh, and making transient vagabond friendships.

Two older Australian guys came in around 6:30, and I instantly made a joke about them being on the prowl, which they appreciated. Then, a third guy came and joined them, and we all got to talking--where are you from, how long are you here, the usual. The third dude was visiting from Sweden, so I instantly mentioned my Swedish friend/inspiration to earn some street cred. They went off to play pool, and I started chatting with others. I got a break (finally!) and as I tried to eat*, they pounced on me, mocking my large flavourless meal. Out of nowhere, Swedish guy sits next to me.
"So, what are you up to this week?" He says, as though we're old mates.
"I'm off tomorrow, so I think I'm going to go to the zoo." I mean, he wanted to know, so I told him.
"Oh, I'd love to do that," he said. "What time are you going to go?"

Next thing you know, we've traded numbers and we've got a 1:30 E.T.A.

Um, okay. This is what moving to a foreign land is all about. Meeting randos for zoo trips and just going where the day takes you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the bar, there's Shane, another customer who I'd met the week before when I was off the clock. I was talking to him while my homegirl chatted up his hot friend, simply doing my sacred wingwoman duty--which was completely selfless seeing as Shane is about five feet two inches tall.

Now, those of you who know me know that what I'm looking for is a TALL glass of milk--not a shot glass! He also had scary eyes that made me uncomfortable, so you can imagine my surprise when he took my phone (it was out cause I was checking a text) and put his number in it. I'm telling you, male confidence never ceases to amaze me. Of course, I deleted his number post haste. When he came in last night and stood on his tip-toes at the bar (I kid you not, tippy tip toes!) he asked me "where I've been."

Um, what's with randoms coming to my place of employment and questioning my whereabouts?? These blokes need to slow their roll!

Just when it couldn't get any better, this 21 year old who came in Saturday night clearly mistook my awesome bartending/social skills as a sign of interest. He was really nice and funny and he was my favorite customer--primarily because he ordered simple drinks and boxed annoying dudes out of my area. And because I'm bored and living life on the edge (and because I have a pay-as-you-go phone that can be ditched at any second) I gave him my number thinking he'd be too drunk to call, or that we could just do a friend thing.

Oh, how wrong I was. I'd ignored his text the night before (which said, "so when are we going on our date?"), and he came into the bar AGAIN on Sunday and sat right in my section with his friend. I asked him how old he was, and I burst out laughing when he told me. (For some reason, me being 47 didn't phase him.)

As the night gets busier, he comes up to the bar and says, "What's the best restaurant you've been to in Sydney?"

"Oh, Chat Thai would have to be it. Tiny place, great food, always packed."

"Ok, I'm going to take you there on our date."

Oh good lord. I'm such an accidental cougar.

Anyway, back to the Easy Swede (which, ironically enough, is a signature cocktail we make at the bar. I couldn't tell you what's in it, though--I always sort of make it up or read the menu when someone asks).

We meet up at Circular Quay at 1:30 today, both hungover. For some reason I thought it was a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine during staff drinks after work, and have been paying the price all day. We stopped to get a quick bite to eat, then took the ferry to the zoo. The Swede is 29 years old, has been practicing law less than a year, and has been to Sydney several times because he has family here. He's very buff, sort of like a Lego man, and also worked as a prison guard.

Yes, I went to the zoo with a Swedish former prison guard. LOVE IT!

The conversation went pretty easily. Swede was quite unimpressed with the zoo because most of the animals were in hiding or inert--although, to be fair, as we rode the Sky Safari up to the top of the zoo, we did see that one of the elephants had a massive boner, so I'd say we scored.

Early on, during the "Australian Walkabout" exhibit where you can take great photos of kangaroos, we came to a startling conclusion. The barrier in the exhibit is about 3 inches high, and yet the kangaroos didn't move. It's like they had no will to live or desire to escape. Clearly, these animals are being given sedatives to keep them complacent and zoo-friendly. I mean, look at him:

I am, like, totes in this kangaroo's George Foreman (grill) and it's not even batting an eyelash.

The only animal with the good sense to try and be free was this lizard we saw as we were being kicked out about 10 minutes after closing time:

For serious. This lizard was just on the pavement, heading toward the ice cream truck. I figured he was going to climb in and try to get a ride off the island. I think I saw its cousin in the reptile room only 10 minutes before.

After a couple of hours at the zoo we grabbed some dinner and chatted. He told me about this famous case he worked on back home, in which a woman killed the children of her ex-bf's current lady. Of course, being the weirdo that I am, I was fascinated by the case and kept making comparisons to CSI, which he didn't appreciate. He apparently grew up in the "mean streets" of Sweden, and is very comfortable "with all sorts of people," having many Iranian, Arabic, and African friends. He's even dated a black girl, so you know he was clearly feeling the blacktress. At first, I thought we were just being friendly, but we he said I could "google him" instead of "googling myself," I knew there were some sex in the subtext.

All in all, it was a decent day. I'm glad I fought the urge to stay inside and watch tv, and I may have even gotten New Year's Eve plans out of this. Yay for doing things!

Oh, I should also add that, while looking at the red pandas, we met a lovely Caucasian family from Boston. How? Well, I hear a little girl whispering and the dad saying "ask her!" And I turn around.

"Excuse me, but we were wondering how you get your hair like that?"

Ah, another lesson in black hair care. I leaned down to the girl's level and took it slow, explaining that no, I didn't do it myself, and that it took 6 hours. I'm glad I caught her early, to educate her on the black plight before she embarrassed herself at a liberal arts university.



*Note to self: never order vegetarian lasagna at a backpacker bar. It does all sorts of bad things to you.