Hey gang,
So, my girl KWalsh always has her finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. This is why I was not surprised to receive an IM from her, alerting me to a new book written by everyone’s favorite girl next door, Jennifer Love Hewitt.
It’s called “I Shot Cupid: My name is Jennifer Love Hewitt and I’m a Love-aholic.”
I kid you not.
Um, where’s my book deal? Do I have to know what you did twelve summers ago and date a bunch of lame dudes? I’ve clearly done both of those things throughout my life.
Anyway, I digress.
As you all know I kind of secretly love Jennifer Love Hewitt. She is so fucking fresh-faced and optimistic, and when everyone freaked out because she’s a size 2 and not a 0, she wasn’t having it, which implies that she may have a smidgen of common sense.
Alas, it would seem from some excerpts from her book,that it is I, Sojourner, who can’t handle the truth about J. Love.
I don’t know if I can handle randomness that is Jennifer Love Hewitt’s “pearls of wisdom”—or, should I say, crystals of wisdom. The girl actually suggests you bedazzle your vajayjay.
I believe the word she uses is “vagazzle.”
Again, I kid you not.
Left to process this alone in my cubicle, I couldn’t cope. I clearly had to g-chat KWalsh and get some answers.
Me: She says “a friend” did it. What friend would you have swarovski crystal your vag?
Walsh, would you do that for me?
KWalsh: No, I’m sorry
because I am morally opposed to vajazzling
KWalsh: and I would not enable you
me: hahahhaa, I am also morally opposed
this sounds insane
and unsanitary
KWalsh: would you like a nice friction based rash from rubbing your junk on crystals, potential male sex partner?!?!?!
me: HAHA
KWalsh: It doesn’t surprise me that JLH vajazzles
vajazzling seems entirely "sex less" to me because it would not enhance sex
It’s like, "I’m a pretty Barbie girl with sparkles on my lady bits, oops don't touch!"
*I think my favorite is number 9 – why on earth should a man have a coat for you? Why a coat? What is going on in her head? I think she was spoiled by Bailey back on Po5.
Showing posts with label confusion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confusion. Show all posts
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
I'm a Heterophobe
So, I was watching Ru Paul's Drag Race last night, as I’m wont to do on a Monday. As I’m eating my ice cream and wondering if Sahara can be my real life best friend (I don’t know why, I just love her), I was thrown by a shocking piece of news from Nicole Paige Brooks:
She has a son!!
Nicole is not the first DQ to talk about her child. In the first episode Tyra Sanchez showed Ru a picture of his son, Jeremiah. This first reveal threw me for a fruit loop, but I reasoned that perhaps this was a result of Tyra’s one foray into hetero sex—after all, his son was born when Tyra was in high school.
However, when Nicole Paige Brooks talked about missing her son, I was almost unable to handle the truth. I don’t know if I’m okay with the heterosexuality of contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I think this means I’m heterophobic.
This wouldn't really surprise me, seeing as for the last 3 months I’ve only hung out with homosexual men and women, even doing a stand up set at a show called “The Back Room.” (get it? Like butts)
Lord knows that for a blacktress, a day without a gay is like a day without sunshine, but perhaps my love is starting to run so deep that it’s making all heteros scary to me.
Is this possible?
Gentle readers, I know a man can wear women’s clothing and be heterosexual. I am open to this truth, and agree that gender is a performance. But it's one thing to like the feel of a soft silk on your scrotum, and quite another to be in the running to become America’s next drag superstar…isn’t it?
My mind is blown, and I can only hope more contestants reveal themselves to be biological fathers. Hopefully this can show another element of the art of drag and start a dialogue on fluidity of sexuality that people aren’t delving into.
Who knew Ru could be such an activist? She’s revoking stereotypes and educating us all!!! She knew BHM was the time to go there. People are all happy, watching their Black Movies On Demand (seriously, Black movies are on demand on cable), feeling proud of their president and what not. Ru knew that she could get her message across now—striking while the iron was hot (and culturally aware).
While I’m going to have to come to grips with my own heterophobia, I don’t know if it will be remedied any time soon. After all, tonight is the premiere of season 2 of “16 and Pregnant”! If watching middle-America teens struggle with getting knocked up doesn’t give you reason enough to put the kibosh on hetero love, I don’t know what does.
(This is how I cope with being single.)
I wish I could end all my posts with an image of myself jumping into a full split, like drag queen Mystique. She's seriously mastered the art of the dramatic exit. (I couldn't find a youtube clip of her splits, but trust me, one will be up soon.)
She has a son!!
Nicole is not the first DQ to talk about her child. In the first episode Tyra Sanchez showed Ru a picture of his son, Jeremiah. This first reveal threw me for a fruit loop, but I reasoned that perhaps this was a result of Tyra’s one foray into hetero sex—after all, his son was born when Tyra was in high school.
However, when Nicole Paige Brooks talked about missing her son, I was almost unable to handle the truth. I don’t know if I’m okay with the heterosexuality of contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I think this means I’m heterophobic.
This wouldn't really surprise me, seeing as for the last 3 months I’ve only hung out with homosexual men and women, even doing a stand up set at a show called “The Back Room.” (get it? Like butts)
Lord knows that for a blacktress, a day without a gay is like a day without sunshine, but perhaps my love is starting to run so deep that it’s making all heteros scary to me.
Is this possible?
Gentle readers, I know a man can wear women’s clothing and be heterosexual. I am open to this truth, and agree that gender is a performance. But it's one thing to like the feel of a soft silk on your scrotum, and quite another to be in the running to become America’s next drag superstar…isn’t it?
My mind is blown, and I can only hope more contestants reveal themselves to be biological fathers. Hopefully this can show another element of the art of drag and start a dialogue on fluidity of sexuality that people aren’t delving into.
Who knew Ru could be such an activist? She’s revoking stereotypes and educating us all!!! She knew BHM was the time to go there. People are all happy, watching their Black Movies On Demand (seriously, Black movies are on demand on cable), feeling proud of their president and what not. Ru knew that she could get her message across now—striking while the iron was hot (and culturally aware).
While I’m going to have to come to grips with my own heterophobia, I don’t know if it will be remedied any time soon. After all, tonight is the premiere of season 2 of “16 and Pregnant”! If watching middle-America teens struggle with getting knocked up doesn’t give you reason enough to put the kibosh on hetero love, I don’t know what does.
(This is how I cope with being single.)
I wish I could end all my posts with an image of myself jumping into a full split, like drag queen Mystique. She's seriously mastered the art of the dramatic exit. (I couldn't find a youtube clip of her splits, but trust me, one will be up soon.)
Monday, November 2, 2009
What's Black and White and Red All Over?
The multi-culti staff at The Red House Furniture Store, in North Carolina!
Please watch the youtube video below, which brought to my attention by a fellow woman of color and writer. Join us both on the emotional rollercoaster.
Things to know:
This video was not made as a joke.
This is a real establishment.
AAAHHHH, IT'S SO AMAZING!!! When Richard, aka BIG HEAD, says he likes, "pumping iron, as well as pumping furniture into people's HOOOMMES" I almost wish I had 3-D glasses so I could feel his hands coming towards me.
Ten Gauge is pretty sweet, too.
I like how they added "and hispanic people, too. All people." at the very end. Someone picked that up in post-production, no doubt.
It's good to see local businesses doing their part to combat racism and oppression, while still making me feel unsafe.
Um, you're welcome, gentle readers.
Please watch the youtube video below, which brought to my attention by a fellow woman of color and writer. Join us both on the emotional rollercoaster.
Things to know:
This video was not made as a joke.
This is a real establishment.
AAAHHHH, IT'S SO AMAZING!!! When Richard, aka BIG HEAD, says he likes, "pumping iron, as well as pumping furniture into people's HOOOMMES" I almost wish I had 3-D glasses so I could feel his hands coming towards me.
Ten Gauge is pretty sweet, too.
I like how they added "and hispanic people, too. All people." at the very end. Someone picked that up in post-production, no doubt.
It's good to see local businesses doing their part to combat racism and oppression, while still making me feel unsafe.
Um, you're welcome, gentle readers.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Homeless Blacktress?
Hey gang,
I am starting to panic a bit.
On Wednesday, October 22, I will officially lack accommodation.
I've only seen three apts., and it's not looking too good. No one has gotten back to me on any of them, and they weren't even so great to begin with. I think, keeping in the European vein of small portions, the apartments are also made to be petite. In one, I actually felt like the Old Blacktress Who Lived in a Shoe--only, instead of the shoe being large and full of children, it was tiny and would just be me and an Asian girl.
Nigel's cousin hasn't called me, so I'm going to have to just lay my cards out there and get desperate. It's only 10:30am, but believe you me, homegirl will be getting a textual eruption in about an hour's time.
I must be honest: I don't know how much I like Sydney. It's reminding me alot of New York (with a splash of Shanghai, Seoul, and Singapore), but it's not very easy to get around. Public transportation costs alot, and it is perfectly normal to wait 30 minutes for a train. I feel like everywhere is a tourist trap, and last night's quest for a normal pub to just grab some dranks and chill with locals turned out to be impossible. I went to bed at 11:15pm, feeling like I may have been in the West Village, where I could at least get free stuff and talk to people I know.
Okay, sorry for the complaints, but this is where the blacktress is emotionally. I'm trying to work out some travel plans--if I'm going to be homeless, I might as well see some things, right? I mean, I do have a year-- it's not like time is of the essence. A 15-hour bus ride to Melbourne is totally worth my time.
Well, unless it's likely that I'll be fondled by a drifter.
I am starting to panic a bit.
On Wednesday, October 22, I will officially lack accommodation.
I've only seen three apts., and it's not looking too good. No one has gotten back to me on any of them, and they weren't even so great to begin with. I think, keeping in the European vein of small portions, the apartments are also made to be petite. In one, I actually felt like the Old Blacktress Who Lived in a Shoe--only, instead of the shoe being large and full of children, it was tiny and would just be me and an Asian girl.
Nigel's cousin hasn't called me, so I'm going to have to just lay my cards out there and get desperate. It's only 10:30am, but believe you me, homegirl will be getting a textual eruption in about an hour's time.
I must be honest: I don't know how much I like Sydney. It's reminding me alot of New York (with a splash of Shanghai, Seoul, and Singapore), but it's not very easy to get around. Public transportation costs alot, and it is perfectly normal to wait 30 minutes for a train. I feel like everywhere is a tourist trap, and last night's quest for a normal pub to just grab some dranks and chill with locals turned out to be impossible. I went to bed at 11:15pm, feeling like I may have been in the West Village, where I could at least get free stuff and talk to people I know.
Okay, sorry for the complaints, but this is where the blacktress is emotionally. I'm trying to work out some travel plans--if I'm going to be homeless, I might as well see some things, right? I mean, I do have a year-- it's not like time is of the essence. A 15-hour bus ride to Melbourne is totally worth my time.
Well, unless it's likely that I'll be fondled by a drifter.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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 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!!!
Monday, March 24, 2008
Mondays With Artists
As you know, I work for a major publication. This comes with many risks, such as: people assuming you know about art, geriatrics seeking your support for their cockamamie schemes (hello, plasticize board, anyone?!), crazy artists thinking you have some sort of control over their failing careers and marriages.
Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.
Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):
What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?
Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.
I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.
Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.
This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.
Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????
I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:
Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.
My fear is mounting.
You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”
Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?
These artists are really starting to freak me out.
Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.
Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):
Can you read that? It says "I draw sock monkeys"
What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?
Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.
I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.
Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.
This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.
Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????
I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:
Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.
My fear is mounting.
You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”
Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?
These artists are really starting to freak me out.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Confusion
I'd like to bring your attention to the following email, which was waiting in my inbox when I returned home from my date with the Photographer last night (which did NOT go well, by the way--I think he found me about as interesting as an SAT textbook...I don't think he'll call. But, if he happens to read this, he SHOULD call, and I'll bake him a granny Smith apple pie).
This email comes from a man who I've referred to as "cum-face." Um....that's all you need to know. We went on two dates back in September, and that was the end of that. As you know, I never put a guy's number in my cell phone until he deserves it, so the process of erasing was pretty easy with this one--though the nickname he earned left me traumatized.
Anyway, I get this email from him in my alias account. As you read, keep in mind two things:
1. I never gave him either of my email addresses.
2. We HAVE NOT SPOKEN OR INTERACTED SINCE SEPTEMBER 2007.
Naomi.
How are you? Happy 2008.
I guess it's been a while. I left my record company in October. Been starting a company on my own, so I've been laying low.
It was great hanging out with you and you're a big part of why 2007 was so good. For what that's worth. Will never forget that sweater skirt your wore that night
chrz/douglas
Um, what? We went on two dates and then I was degraded--I didn't even LET him cum on my face. How could I make 2007 great?
And, ironically, I wore the "sweater skirt" to which he is referring on my date with the Photographer last night (and it is a sweater dress, for the record). Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have the same affect on him.
::Sigh::
This email comes from a man who I've referred to as "cum-face." Um....that's all you need to know. We went on two dates back in September, and that was the end of that. As you know, I never put a guy's number in my cell phone until he deserves it, so the process of erasing was pretty easy with this one--though the nickname he earned left me traumatized.
Anyway, I get this email from him in my alias account. As you read, keep in mind two things:
1. I never gave him either of my email addresses.
2. We HAVE NOT SPOKEN OR INTERACTED SINCE SEPTEMBER 2007.
Naomi.
How are you? Happy 2008.
I guess it's been a while. I left my record company in October. Been starting a company on my own, so I've been laying low.
It was great hanging out with you and you're a big part of why 2007 was so good. For what that's worth. Will never forget that sweater skirt your wore that night
chrz/douglas
Um, what? We went on two dates and then I was degraded--I didn't even LET him cum on my face. How could I make 2007 great?
And, ironically, I wore the "sweater skirt" to which he is referring on my date with the Photographer last night (and it is a sweater dress, for the record). Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have the same affect on him.
::Sigh::
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)