"UNEXPECTED FAILURE"

That's what popped up on my phone when I tried to check my email during breakfast this morning. Usually it just says "connection lost" or something equally generic--it's like it knows I'm a hot mess.

I've been off the grid because Jewboo and I have begun apartment hunting. This has meant that every waking hour is spent on the internet looking for a place to call home and then running to potential spots at a moment's notice. I'm trolling on craigslist with the frequency of a convicted sex offender and getting as disappointed as a fella who requests an Asian prostitute and ends up with a 60-year-old German lady.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE" is the best way to encapsulate my emotions over the last week and a half.

The whole process is soul-crushing. I just feel so inadequate and poor. Did you know that kitchens are a thing of the past? I mean, the appliances are still required, but one can longer expect to have any sort of surface for placing items, mincing meats, or juilenn-ing carrots. As I prepare to leave the finest accommodations I will ever know, I'm kinda depressed by the options available to me. I mean, why did I bother getting degrees expensive schools if I'd only be able to afford to live in a cardboard box?

Of course, there are options, but being in a realationship and all, we've got to do this thing called "compromise." As I understand it, it basically means we'll have to settle in favor of having each other and only hope that the resentment doesn't break us.

That's how love works, right?

I know I'm a brat, but because this blog is my safe space (where I am vulnerable to the comments and criticisms of others), I will tell my TRUTH: I have grown accustomed to a lifestyle in which I can do laundry at my leisure and only walk 2 minutes to the subway. And yes, my desire to live in Manhattan is a bit bourgie--but I swear, it's not my fault, it's genetic. I already told you guys how, when my mom was pregnant with me and living in Brooklyn she chose a doctor who worked in Harlem Hospital? Why did she do that? Because the hospital was top-notch. I was supposed to be born on December 24, but when my mom went in for a final check-up on December 7, she hopped off the examining table and her water broke--I was ready to break free.

Guys, even as a fetus I could sense that we were in Manhattan and I wanted to make it convenient for us. My connection with this convenient, narrow, subway-filled borough runs deep. (Plus, Lord knows it would have been a shit show trying to get a cab from BK to Harlem when your black and trying to do lamaze breathing!)

But I can't give up--if I let the negative thinking ruin me, I wouldn't have ever made it to freedom, you know?

As we struggle to find a place that works within our tiny budget, we also have to battle brokers, which are like evil gnomes who want nothing more than a pound of your flesh and 15% commission. I think our mutual hatred for them is what's keeping our love so strong as we attempt to traverse this heartless city. Honestly, the process is really bringing out the addict in me. Think about it:

Finding an apartment is basically a legal, drug-free way to get a high and then come crashing down with a hangover that can only come from absinthe and cocaine. Not that I've done that, mind you, but I've been around enough unsavory characters/rich private school kids to know how the process works. Basically, you spend all day trying to track down "the stuff" (going from listing to listing, making call after call). Most of the time, the weed you wanted turned out to be oregano and the cheap whiskey is watered down, so to speak. When you finally find "the goods," you've got the dealer breathing down your neck, repeatedly assuring you that "this is legit"--which you've learned means it's probably not (it's about attraction, not promotion in this drug game). You want to play it cool, but you've got a checkbook in your pocket and want to feel like you've accomplished something, so you get ready to hand over all your savings for a chance at a great high.

Just then, another dude comes up in need of a fix. Before you can even find your pen, he hands over all of his cash and the keys to his Bentley. You officially don't exist.

Cut to you squatting in a crack den, telling yourself this is just a one-time thing.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Am I really incapable of finding a clean, safe, centrally located place to live after nearly 30 years on earth and a full-time job at a place that's not McDonald's?

I mean, the answer is yes--at least on one of those counts. But to give up on dreams hurts, especially when I feel as though so many of my dreams are being deferred (the blackting, the voiceover, the day job).

I know this is a process and millions have gone through it and lived to tell the tale; I just didn't expect this kind of failure.

(See how I tied that back in there? NAILED IT!)

Give Me a CRAY to Build a Dream On…

...And my imagination will drive upon that cray!

NB: {RF} denotes a Red Flag.

Happy Monday, gang—Sojourner here, writing to you live from my veal pen. I apologize for the delayed post. There was much going on but I wasn’t sure if it was share-worthy until now. I’ll start with the most CRAY:

Last Sunday (1/22) I did a set at a gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen that I thought changed my life. I mean, I wasn’t so amazing, but I did well and discovered I have a growing fan base among the 20-something unemployed-gay-male set. After the show, a woman approached me, congratulating me on my set and asking if I “had done any television.” She was very small and dressed like a tourist, with an oversized hunter-green fleece and a fanny pack. {RF} She asked for my card and introduced herself as a writer for SNL and script supervisor on 30 Rock. "I work closely with Marci Klein and have script supervised for Tina Fey," she said. "And I always like to keep an eye out for new faces for casting. Can I have your card?"

OH EM GEE!!! Dreams DO come true! Perhaps I can still be noticed doing my stand-up thang even though I’m not in the cult of UCB. Perhaps I am above average. Perhaps—

Now, y’all know mama didn’t raise no fool. Before the show ended I approached the host and asked if this woman was legit. “No, she is,” he assured me. “She’ll email you tomorrow, pass your info on, it’s all good.” Because I want this man to be my best friend, and because he's a working actor and comic who's been in the business many years, I trust his judgment.

That night, giddy with excitement but not one to count my chickens, I search for the woman online. After all, a writer for two of the most famous and popular shows on television must have an IMDB or a Wiki, right?

Well, not a damn thing came up. {RF} Um, this is 2012--if you are not on the internet, you do not exist. Even as a freelancer--especially as a freelancer--one should have a website so that people can know you're legit.

The next day, she did email, asking for a high-res picture she could send to NBC casting--perhaps I was just being negative. As I scrambled to find a good shot on my work comp, I noticed that the email came from a--let’s say schmachel.schmuben@aol.com. {RF} The woman I met introduced herself as let’s say Schmobbie Jones. Ok, maybe it’s an assistant, I thought to myself. So I decided to google the name in the email address, adding “NBC” “SNL,” “writer staff”—no dice. {RF}

As I'm pretending to be Garcia from "Criminal Minds," Schmobbie was sending emails like this:
Subject: 3 scripts printed I can mail
or do you want to meet briefly - it's rainy & i am writing /sent pitch to NBC west they like
your casting & brad gave you a rave as actress/ comedian - I am into the series it's
really got a got shot it's in the semi finals on west coast development/ anyway totally!
[insert rando alias] nbc 30 r

{RF} WHAT THE FUCK? The "semi finals"? Of what--America's Next Top CauCRAYsian?

At this point, I was glad I hadn't told anyone besides Jewboo and my mom.

I like to think of myself as Nancy Drew Must Not Know Bout Me, which means I'm never done sleuthing (imagine if this was an internet date!). I decided to contact a friend—ok, let’s be real, a Facebook friend—who writes for SNL and tell her about this person. She’s never heard of the woman! I email the comedian through whom I met this woman to let him know the status:

Hey B - Have you actually been called in for anything through [insert rando alias]? I can't find hide nor hair of her on the interwebs, and she said she wrote at SNL and my friend who's a writer there has never heard of her. Also got an email from her under the address [another random alias]@yahoo.com (sent to my youtube account) and schmachel.schmuben@aol.....Is she going to have us all gathered together for a sex party?
-N

He replies with:
Lol. No, she's legit. She writes freelance for snl.. So not a staff writer. And is one of the script supervisor's for 30Rock. She ain't Tina Fey or Lorne Michaels... But she's also not Kathy Bates in Misery...

Mmmmkay…..But I can't ignore the feeling in my gut. Much like young Christina Aguilera when she was a genie in a bottle, my body was sayin' let’s go (ahead and think you may be getting a great opportunity) but my heart was saying NO (this bitch is cray)!

The emails keep coming all week, with requests to meet for a read-through, phone calls telling me where the scripts have been dropped off for me to pick up, and emails cc’d to me and NBC exec producer Marci Klein, Bob Greenwalt, and others. If she was a fraud, wouldn't any of the NBC people on the emails--or one of their assistants or an intern--send a standard reply to those included on the chain so that they can head this off at the pass? And this "Schmobbie" woman hasn’t tried to extort money from me or put me in an ice bath so she can jack a kidney, so what exactly is her end-game?

Last night—exactly seven days after our initial meeting—my theories were confirmed. I went to the same bar from last week to pick up the scripts that this woman left for me, and the comic pulls me into the coat-check room as soon as he sees me. He's sighing and clutching his temples, and won't say anything until he's closed the barricade and tightly sequestered us in the corner of the dimly lit coatroom. (love my dramatic gays) “Did you get my email?” he asks tensely. Alas, no. I was out all day, and had just come from doing a shitty set at a comedy show in Harlem. He fills me in on his email, which was:

[One of the other comics embroiled in this mess] just texted me to say she was contacted by NBC legal regarding [this sketchy woman] and supposedly she is NOT affiliated with NBC and they're basically reaching out to people to make sure we steer clear of her. I'm waiting for [comic] to call me and give me more details and I'll let you know all I know... So stay tuned
Ps. I hate this business...


Y’all, I just don’t know what to say. I’m annoyed, depressed, and frustrated. People always tell me I’m being pessimistic, but then shit like this goes down, and I’m like, “I TOLD YOU IT WASN’T HAPPENIN’ FOR ME!” These out-of-control incidences are the kinds of unforgettable things that influence your outlook! Although I saw it comin’ a mile away, and I know the woman is sick and suffering, I can’t help but feel the following:

• If NBC knows about this woman, why couldn’t I have gotten a form-email saying that she wasn’t who she claimed to be? (she’d cc’d real NBC executives on our emails) I'm not saying I Marci Klein should have scooped me up in her arms, rocked me gently, and told me I was talented, but I mean, it's fuckin' NBC—I know they got auto-reply and an IT staff that’s probably got 19 PhDs among them. This lady wears a laminated NBC badge—really, they aren’t gonna take any recourse or help others avoid falling prey to her fuckery?
• How can this delusional woman involve so many young, hopeful actors into her elaborate lies?? She’s heartbreakin’ and impersonatin’!
• I’m trying to “suit up and show up,” as they say—do what I can, be open and honest, and try not to let the successes of people 10 years young and 20 pounds thinner make me feel bad. And yet, when I put myself out there in spite of my negativity, I’m met with mentally unstable hobbit-like creatures who are still emailing me about a green-lit pilot in which I'd play a 40-something-year-old former model. Yes, y’all—allegedly, there’s a read-through tonight at 10pm.

#DreamsDeferred

On an Up-Note:

It seems that Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock might go on tour together.
Reason to live? – Present!
Of course, Dave’s the wild card in this scenario, but if anyone could persuade him, it’s Chris “Solid As A” Rock. Fingers crossed! I'd love to be their roadie.