Since We're in the Mood for Change....

Hey guys, so I don't know if you heard, but America has a black president. He's really into change--and not in the begging-for-it-like-a-hobo kind of way. He's about making ish different the world over.

So, in that vein, I have a thought: why don't rich and famous white folks stop adopting brown children and go get some white babies? Seriously. I was kicking it in the Broadway Mall in Sydney and saw the cutest brown baby with his white mom (he called her mama, I'm not assuming). For some reason it got me thinking about how, when a white person adopts a child of another race, they are seen as extra-giving and self-less. But what about those white folks who live in poverty? Poverty breeds hate which leads to the dark side. Perhaps if we took some poor white folks out of their backwoods homes, there'd be fewer KKK members.

My plan is to get Brad and Angie to adopt some poor white babies from right here in America, cause nothing teaches cross-cultural acceptance like having siblings straight out of a United Colors of Benetton catalogue. Since Brad's stopped returning my calls, and Angie's mad cause I told her to get someone to handle Zahara's head, I'm going to just write an open letter. Here goes...

Dear Brangelina,

Hey guys, it's me, Blacktress! How are you doing? Brad, I was totes about you in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but I found the trope of the 'magical negro' to be off putting. At first I thought it was just F. Scott Fitzgerald, but it turns out the short story had no negroes at all, let alone magical ones! You got a black baby now, stop perpetuating stereotypes!!

Anyway, that's not what I'm writing about. I'm writing because you guys love adopting babies. Angie loves walking around with a baby on each hip and two on each side, much like a glamorous childcare worker. However, you seem to adopt brown babies only. While this is all well and good, there are several white children in our fair country that could use some wealth and the education that it brings. Brangie, what about going into some rural areas and picking up some kids who are 12 years old and still can't read? What about asking some angry racist white folks if you can borrow their babies for 18 years, and then sending their children back armed with knowledge of Vietnamese, African, and Cambodian culture? I'd love to turn to Page Six and see a glamour shot of a former farmhand turning his KKK robes into a dashiki while braiding Zahara's hair.

So, um, yeah, that's just what I'm wondering. How are things? Angie, you're looking a little rough around the edges, boo. No matter how rich you are, you can't raise 6 kids and make it through the day. I loved you in The Changeling, but I am wondering if maybe you need a kid or two to disappear just to take the edge off. Actually, give me the white twins. I'll have them coming back reading Audre Lorde and "See Spot Run When Your Eyes Are Done Watching God"--it's Zora Neale Hurston for kids. Expect it in fall 2009.

Okay, well, I hope you take my lesson to heart. I've got a list of some towns you can start in when you're ready.

xoxo,
Blacktress!

What do you think? Is this the kind of change we can believe in?

Back to BCB--And More

So, I've received many emails and gchats regarding my new guiding light, BCB. Seeing as every day she teaches me something new (and I'm hoping we will soon watch the film "Something New"), I must elaborate on this woman.

So, last night, the friend I was supposed to meet up with was a Kellog's Frosted flake and never called. Luckily, BCB took me under her wing and invited me along to a local pub to meet some her mates. BCB is a fashion stylist, and needless to say is always looking fierce--even when she throws on, like, a $5 top and some Converse Chucks. She even manages to find EMPLOYED musicians, which is seriously like finding a needle in a haystack for the blacktress.

Anyway, I sit down to dinner and dranks with her 2 lesbian women from Perth (the most remote city on earth--Wiki that shit)--it was like United Colors of Benetton meets the L Word. One is a hilarious Asian lesbian (a hotter, cooler Margaret Cho) and and her homegirl is a mysterious South Asian woman(let's call her Parminder Nagra, just for reference), and we end up talking about going to Arrows-- a sex party for women somewhere in the nearby gayborhood.

These chicks are stone-cold sober, and yet somehow we end up discussing Vs, Ps, and that time Margaret Cho tried to kiss BCB--you know, cause everyone else was making out and she didn't want her to be left out.
I think we all know that scenario all too well.

On the way back to BCB's house, she pointed out a brothel nestled among the quiet homes on the street. I guess it wasn't exactly undercover, seeing as a random beefy dude was sitting outside, and just as we walked by, a man exited, as a tiny Asian woman in a bra said, "Thank you, good night!"
From my vantage point, I could see that the walls were red.
Note to self: if you need a red light special, roll Sydney-side, cause this place is Lefty Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all! Just brothels on residential streets, men rolling through like it ain't no thang.

Oh, speaking of Loosey Goosey, I saw THE AUSTRALIAN last Friday.
I know, I know, I'm keeping secrets from you, gentle readers.

I'd been on the fence about seeing the fool, but in a moment of weakness/loneliness, I texted him my Aussie number. I soon after fortified myself, but he kept texting, and I figured it was best to get it over with.
He met up with me Friday, as he walked up, I was pleased to see that he'd gotten a little chubs, for, as you know, nothign helps ease the pain of scorn like seeing the man you wanted to marry looking bloated and knowing he's single.
We drove around the city, seeing the sights under the cloak of night (so, of course, I have no clue where anything he showed me actually is). We talked for a while, and it was mostly silly. I realized he possesses one of my least favorite traits in a human being--over-confidence. He just thinks he's the jam and the jump-off, when really he's a self-righteous hot mess who's not all that bright.

I'm over him, I swear. The bitterness is just residual.

As our drive wound down, we reached a crossroads--literally. We were at an intersection that could take us to my hostel or to his apartment. He goes, "Okay, I'm just gonna put it out there--do you want to go back to my place?"
I thought for a second, which felt like forever. I mean, his bed would probably be comfortable. There'd be no Swedes to wake me up at 7am. I wouldn't be doing anything I hadn't already done.

But I wasn't even trying to go down that road. I did not come all the way to Sydney to get into some old drama! I came to get into some NEW drama! Besides, does this fool really think a couple of litres of petrol (god, how Ozzie am I now?) are gonna get me to drop my panties?! In the words of Whitney: Hell to the NO!

Unfortunately, it seems that the Ozzies aren't really as down with the brown as I'd hoped--unless you count the girl who was standing next to me in SES (a clothing store in the mall). I was waiting to go the fitting room and she was passing by me and stops, RUBS THE BACK OF MY HAND, and says, "Oh, look at your beautiful skin!"

For serious, y'all. This chick touched me. I was 'bout ready to cut her.

Or, what about the Ozzie guy in the pub that I went to with United Colors of Benetton? I was ordering my bev, and he leans over and goes, "Your hair is quite nice," leering like the OVER 50-year-old that he was. I just gave a light smile and tried to will the bartender over to me as fast as possible. I gave him my order and as I waited, the old guy goes, "The rest of you is quite nice, too."
EW.
EW.
EW.

I grabbed my drank and ran back upstairs.
Lefty-Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all!!!