The Chosen People Have Chosen Me!!!

So, I don’t know how many of you received my March newsletter (email madblacktress[at]gmail.com if you wanna opt in!), but I mentioned a gig that was unlike any I’ve ever had. Of course, being nervous and stressed about it, I was trying to block it out and not speak of it—you know, like how I handle sweating in public. Saturday, March 17, I was scheduled to perform at a Jewish Community Center in York, Pennsylvania, just an hour away from where Jewboo’s parents live!

One of these things is not like the other.....

Clearly, someone had dropped out at the last minute—but I’m not quite sure why I was the natural sub. Never one to turn down a gig, I said yes and figured I’d work it out later. It was kinda exciting—although I was getting paid to do “20 minutes, clean material, but can be edgy,” and my lover’s parents would be in attendance!!! As you can imagine, I was freaking out. I mean, what does ‘edgy’ even mean? Can I just get a list of forbidden words? You know, like:

YOU CANNOT SAY

• F word
• S word
• C word
• Vagina / Vajay-jay
• P in V without a C
• “I can’t passover those matzohballs.”
• Niggerbollen
• Honky Lumps

YOU CAN SAY

• The other C word (cancer)
• The other C word (Caucasia)
• "Save the drama for Obama"
• Bitch, when used as a pronoun
• Wintercourse, when used as a biological term

I was equally stressed out being in a JCC. We all know that I’m down with the chosen but I’m learning that non-New York Jews are a different crowd. And, like the New Hampshire country club I attempted to entertain back in October, these folks were going to be out of my target demographic in terms of age and lifestyle choices. Would they know what Roots or a Tyler Perry production was? Would they be offended by the use of the term ‘Jewboo? I just wasn’t sure how I’d play it.

After consulting some of the top comedic Jewish minds I know, I reached the Zen place of not actually dealing with it. As Jewboo and I headed to PA, I started to get stressed. This was quickly eclipsed by a near-death experience.

So, turns out that I have allergy-induced asthma...which I discovered on Saturday, the morning before my JCC debut. #fml

Remember the magical impression I made on my first visit to Jewboo's family/a suburban PA emergency room?

Well, turns out it wasn't the lady meds--it's cat dander plus wall-to-wall carpeting.

After a night spent wheezing, we finally decided to suck it up and go to the urgent care center. Of course, being Pennsylvania and not NYC, I was in and out in just over an hour, complete with prescriptions to pick up!
Of course, fear of death trumps fear of death by stage, but once I passed that hurdle, I was back to freaking out, and waiting around the venue for over 90 minutes didn't help--until I went to the bathroom, that is.
After closing the stall door, my own face looked back at me!!!

Seeing one's own face in the most unexpected places (i.e. not a mirror) was mind-blowing!

I felt like Rihanna.

Clearly, they were ready for me, as they'd had to see my face numerous times over the last two weeks. I went up second, which gave me time to read the temperature of the room. They were quite fun, actually, and opener Gilad Foss killed them with his Israeli sense of Jewmor. I followed, and just sorta went in with my same old stuff. And turns out, they liked me--they really, really liked me!

After my set, everyone wanted to meet Jewboo (who had to repeatedly say his real name in an attempt to assert his identity), and the head of the JCC even cornered me in a wine-induced stupor and asked if I planned to convert to Judaism.
"Um, let's go over to the cake," I replied.
BYOB at a JCC = TMI!

The night was fun and it felt good to share that side of myself with the boo's parents. I was, however, wrecked from the previous night and ready to get to bed when we got home at 2am. (Keeping the parents out til all hours!) Unfortunately, steroids and the inhaler kept me hyped up like Jessie Spano before the big dance contest. I spent much of Sunday lying on the couch and returned to NYC with a mountain of laundry and much to do--you know, like prepare for an audition for 30 Rock on Monday.

Yep, that happened! I got an email Friday afternoon while en route to the PA JCC (perhaps I was already creating Chosen People karma before the gig began???). After the insanity of "Schmobbie Jones" (remember her?) I had to do a bunch of sleuthing to make sure I wasn't being lured into a dark alley. After all, how did they even know me? Where'd they get my contact info? How did they know I'd be right for the part?

Well, turns out those casting folks are good! Based on a set they saw me do at a club back in September, they called me in for a strong black woman whose one line is, "I handle conflict appropriately and I'm up-to-date on my mortgage payments!" YES!!! THAT IS SO ME!!!!

I was pretty psyched and was totally hepped up Sunday night--and still trying to get that whole "breathing" thing under control. A trip to the bathroom at 3:30am turned nearly deadly as I walked directly into the doorframe, clocking myself in the head. Any attempt at sleeping was abandoned, as I worked to ensure that I wouldn't end up with a giant lump on my head for 30 Rock.

I went into the audition in my Banana Republic dress and was about 10 years younger than the other women, which was a bit awk. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from Waiting to Exhale, especially because they all seemed to know each other. For reals, they were showing pictures of their babies, talking about their New Jersey homes that were minutes from one another, and generally being BFF. Clearly, there's an elite group of upwardly mobile blacktresses that function similarly to the Freemasons that I need to be a part of.

I must find my way in.

How are you?

You Don't Have to Go Far to Go INSIDE CAUCASIA

Sorry for the delayed blogging--I'm still regaining my strength after my intense journey into Caucasia. For some reason, it was even more nerve-racking than that time I lived in Australia, right in the center of it all. I think it's because of the shock--you don't expect to find such a non-diverse population in your same time zone in 2011. Add to that the abundance of nature and I felt so out of my element that I almost demanded that the toll booth worker stamp my passport!

Before I go into my visits with my married friends, I must show you a photograph of my #1 New Hampshire Fan:


Yes, that is a handlebar mustache. Yes, that is a Hawaiian shirt under his windbreaker. Yes, his head like a supremacist.
And yes, his hand is inappropriately close to my breast area.

I have arrived.

He didn't tell me his name, but he did tell me that I could "tug on these [his handlebars] whenever you want!!!"
No, there was no drink minimum.

All in all, I'd say the set went fine. I did, however, experience a mild fail: I completely forgot my train of thought during my set. I am not kidding. I was doing a lot of crowd work, thinking I'd need to fill my 20 minutes (and realizing that any and all Jewmor--Jew Humor--was lost on the crowd), and it just sidetracked me. I wasn't able to make my Tyler Perry references, nor could I reference anything else that took place in pop culture over the last 20 years.

And, mid-joke, I realized it was probably poor form to talk about comparing parenting to having a terminal illness at a breast cancer fundraiser. (#awkward) There was much awkward back-pedaling.

But all in all, I think the crowd was okay with it. It definitely wasn't my target demographic, so the fact that I got laughs at all--and wasn't actively boo'd offstage or heckled--is a success, I guess. It was a bit weird--as you all know, I'm used to highs and lows when it comes to emotions. When this set was done, I was relatively "meh." I didn't feel horrible or terrible--so I didn't really know how to cope. As I stood in the "talent area" watching the remainder of the show, a bald, old Caucasian man wearing a salmon-pink sweater approached. As he walked by to get to the bathroom (yes, the talent area was near the bathroom), he pointed his fist toward me. I wondered if this was his geriatric attempt at assaulting me but then I realized that he wanted to give me a fist bump!!!

Yes, guys, it happened. An old man gave me a fist bump. I guess he was the one who got my slavery humor.

Other than the show, I got to see some friends I hadn't seen in a while, which was nice. It was also a bit surreal, because they are both mature married couples, with property and children and such. My New Hampshire friends are out of control. Have you ever had a moment with someone where you just think, "How are you this White and I never knew it?" Well, yeah, that's what happened.

As we drove the two hours outside of Boston to their acreage, I watched as the number of bars on my cell phone decreased. As we drove up the winding backroads, I figured out that the trees outnumbered the people about 14 to 1. As we turned onto the private road that leads to their gorgeous house, I wondered if anyone would be able to hear me scream--not that I planned to, but I was just wondering.

We walked to the door and with a gentle push, it opened--they aren't even locking this shit up, y'all! You know it's backwoods when you don't have to say something when you see something and can just sleep without the door locked. The door opened and through the open back door, I could see the lady of the house--like I'd never seen her before.

She stood outside doling out food to the full-grown chickens in the chicken coop, with the 10-month-old baby on her hip!!

For those of you who can't imagine what this could look like, here's a visual aid:

She has become a pioneer wife, I thought to myself. It got really intense, though, when I had hit my bedtime and wanted to rest up before the big show. I couldn't tuck in, however, until the hubby had started a fire in the wood stove downstairs. WHAT?!

This historical relic kept my room both toasty warm and smelling of pine.

I was out of my element; I started having slavery flashbacks. I think part of why Caucasia enjoys living like it's the 1890s is because back then, they were running thangs! I mean, if I could travel back in time and bring my educational opportunities and tampons, I'd be willing to check out the days of yore, too. But as it stands, I'm just glad I'm in a time and place where hate crimes can at least be caught on camera phones and punished.

I gotta run and interview a student, but let's talk soon!

Mic Check!

When blogging on the plantation I do all my writing in a Word document so that if massa comes by it’ll look like I’m hard at work. This document has grown to 214 pages (and counting) and consists of 74,765 words. Clearly I know how to commit to things.
So why am I always so afraid I’m a failure?

I was up last night, tossing and turning, totally wired like ‘twas the night before Christmas. I couldn’t figure out why I was so anxious. Was it because I met a Deaf ex-convict with Maori-like tattoos who made me an origami crane?
Or because I’m doing a 20-minute set at a country club in New Hampshire on Saturday night?
Yep, I think that’s it.

I haven’t performed in over a week and haven’t found much time to hit an open mic, but I’m not really nervous about being on stage. I am, however, nervous about no one laughing at my jokes. I mean, New Hampshire—that’s a wild card of a state. Their motto is “Live Free or Die,” which you know appeals to Sojourner. But they’re 93.9% White (thanks, Wikipedia!), and most of that’s Canadian! Guys, this is Caucasia to the maxxxxxxxx.

Will they get my Harriet Tubman jokes? Will they think a gentrified vagina is the height of hilarity? Do they even have gentrification in New Hampshire? They did make same-sex marriage legal before NYC, so they definitely have a win there. I just hope some gays come out to the show! $5 from every ticket goes to the Susan G. Komen Foundation, so there should be plenty of boob-lovers in the house (what does that mean?). I need plenty of jokes in the ol’ back pocket, so that I can quickly shift gears if I start hearing crickets.

I’m gonna have to start writing out my set list. My first lineup is just all the jokes/ideas I think will work, then I start to screen them and organize it a bit. Here’s what I’ve got so far (yes, this is actually how they are written in my notebook):

• Why I don’t like nature
• Netflix
• Babies = terminal illness – we’re gonna beat this thing
• Fucked up 7-hour job interview
• Work ethics—you don’t pay me to care
• God as dad
• Drink to feel pretty
• Harriet Tubman going to the Montreal Jazz Festival
• INSIDE CAUCASIA
• Jewboo
• Why it’s so cold in the D
• Low Standards/OK Cupid

I don’t know, we’ll see what happens. Friday night I’m staying with friends who live in the New Hampshire countryside. I swear, if they didn't have a baby for me to play with, I would probably have a Shining-style breakdown out in the backwoods. Saturday night, I’m staying with some of the other performers and probably sharing a bed with a random. Wish me luck!

You Can Find Me in Da (Country) Club

*******Breaking Blacktress News******

October 22, I’ll be heading to New Hampshire to do a show with 5 Funny Females--and I’ll be making more money than I’ll have to spend getting there!

I'll also have a 20-minute set--plenty of time to do my best blackting and comedic stylings. It's very exciting but also a touch nerve-wracking—the show is in New Hampshire, y’all. At a country club.

Yes, a country club.

You know a blacktress gets uneasy when traveling through the Caucasian countryside, but when I’m on a veritable Northern plantation—and so recently after the release of The Help, no less—it becomes even more touch and go. What if they force me to teach them what it means to really love, or how to sing with emotion? I immediately reached out to the other NYC comic who's booked, asking if we could carpool. She's from Boston and knows how to traverse these lands. (I've found that, when traveling into unknown parts of Caucasia, it helps to bring your own blondtourage to help with translation and such.)

The lineup includes a lesbian, an Asian woman, and a blacktress, so I’m not exactly expecting the RNC, but seeing as it’s at a country club and people are spending $55 for dinner and a show, I can’t really count my chickens.

I should probably keep a lid on the whole “gentrifying the vag” thing, though.

This is really good news after the start to a rough week. Tuesday I went to the dentist for a cleaning, only to find out that I have not one, not two, but four cavities!!! And this, after the hygienist tells me the cost of my cleaning and exam is double what they said it was (she got her facts wrong). WTF?!

I floss diligently—even in a blackout! (I’ve seen evidence of my strict oral hygiene the next morning, floss strewn about like yarn ravaged by kittens.) How did this happen?

I guess trying to dodge orthodontic bills by making my retainer out of Laffy Taffy wasn’t as smart as I thought.

The cavities themselves don’t stress me out as much as the cost of them. The doc says it’ll be $200 - $300 for each filling.
Remember how last week I was depressed about not being able to fund my dreams? Well, now, I can’t even fund my own oral health!

The only way I can swing this is to do one filling per month until I’m all done.
Y’all, I am basically putting my teeth on layaway!

Um, did I or did I not get a degree? Do I or do I not direct the editorial for a national magazine? (ok, it’s probably only read by 12 people, but still—you can find it in any bookstore that hasn’t gone bankrupt!)
HOW CAN I NOT AFFORD MY TEETH????

Add to this the bills from my near-terminal-illness, and I’m actually going to have to file Chapter 11. Or, like, Chapter 9—close to bankruptcy, but not quite.

Okay, I know I’m, like, 40 years behind, but what the hell is the point of insurance? I don’t think I should have to pay for any services unless they find and treat whatever it is ails me. I mean, if I get into your radioactive tube and you don’t find anything, then why should I give you half my paycheck? If I get in your radioactive tube and you find cancer or a tumor and can’t actually cure me, why should my surviving relatives pay you? I mean, clearly, you’ve failed them. It’s just like camping—why go outside and pretend to be poor? United Healthcare, why must I pay you for: (1) making me think I’m going to die; (2) accepting a doctor’s suggestion that she do a minimally invasive and simple test [that actually costs hundreds of dollars.]; (3) telling me that I’m actually in good health, or in a state that no one can really do anything about? It seems that I’m right where I left off, only with a damn neti pot and some supplements.

Ok, that’s enough from me. The money from this gig can go to half a filling!
How are you guys? Leave a comment with a word or phrase, and I’ll use it to write today’s sketch—seriously!

Things I Have Said Today That Weren't for Comedic Effect

1. To coworker, re: upcoming travel show: Do you think the crowd in Stony Point will appreciate jokes about gentrifying my vagina?

2. To the entire office: I'm sorry I said 'vagina' everyone.

3. To Jewboo, re: why I have an Ipad to play with: Well, love, I am a lady. And when I have my Iperiod, I need an Ipad.

4. Me [re: homeless man who is asking everyone in the lobby for change and bypasses our table]: That homeless man didn't even ask us for money.
Jewboo: He asked me when I was walking over here.
Me: What kind of institutionalized racism is that? Doesn't he see me with an IPad????

5. Out loud in office, to no one in particular: Well, I like genetic anomalies and "To Catch a Predator".

I'm in a weird mood today, guys.

I just found out some details on the out-of-town set I'm doing next week, and I'm getting nnnnnnneeeerrrrvvous!

The booker's email was ridiculously cryptic and vague, saying only:

Thu May 19th

8:30 show - arrive at least 30 minutes prior

80 people, Content R

MC: 20 min

Middle: 30 min

HL: BLACKTRESS 40 m

Guys, I'm trying to stay cool, but the other two guys are seasoned pros! The "Middle" man has been on Conan several times! His name is [something that's not his real name], he looks like an approachable Rob Reiner, and he's been on 30 Rock! How on earth did I get the headline spot? Am I being punked and hazed, or is the audience comprised of young, gifted, and black women? All these unknown variables are frightening me. I'll have to start working on a set list that'll kill--kill time, that is.

I may have to request a projector so that I can show YouTubes.

The show is at some Steakhouse or pub or something. My coworker is from the same county as Stony Point and said, "it's kind of hick-ish." Um.....can these hicks get down with stories about being "inside Caucasia" and my penchant for miscegenation? The booker wrote "content R", but does that stand for Racial, Racy, or Retro? I've been told that my comedy is "smart," and I've got to "slow it down for the rest of the crowd." Maybe I can kill time by spelling everything out?

I'm starting to get terrified. So I come to you now, gentle readers--the people who know my truths better than anyone else. Also, most of you are Caucasian and/or grew up in the suburbs, so you might be better equipped to handle this type of audience. What should I do?????

I need you now more than ever.

Is it OK to say 'vagina' in the workplace?

After Wednesday's magical show for the single ladies of Sydney, I got a call bright and early at 9:18am, from the lovely woman who MC'd and organized the show.

"Hey, Sojourner, do you want to do a 5 minute set tonight fr $100?"

Um, was that a trick question? Was I still asleep and dreaming? Of course I want to speak for 5 minutes and receive 100 bones.

"Um, sure," I said tentatively, slightly worried about this Caucasian's willingness to throw money away. "What's the catch?"

"Nothing," she said confidently. "My friend works at an ad agency and they were going to do a comedy thing, but no one in the office wanted to participate so they decided to get some professional stand-up comics to come in. She asked me and I'm just not in the mood, so I thought of you."

God bless her soul--she always thinks of a blacktress when it comes to a side hustle. Seeing as I'm about to start 5 weeks of traveling, every little bit helps, and I've never been paid to do stand-up. I can't believe after a few weeks on the Aussie scene, they already want to put the blacktress on payroll! I've never done a corporate gig, either, and you know I have no qualms--I will sell out like chinos at the GAP if you let me. And after Wednesday's success, I was feeling freer than after the Emancipation Proclamation, so there was no fear.

I call up my contact at the ad agency, a lovely Scottish woman who's really excited to "do something new with this month's staff meeting." The only thing she asks is that I keep it "relatively clean. I mean, we're a young, hip agency, but not too much cursing or dirtiness." Fair enough. This will be during business hours.

You know, I've never thought of myself as a dirty comedian at all--I'm not RAW like Eddie, or dropping F-bombs like it's Nagasaki. But check out my blog rating on your right--I'm NC-17! I do have a strong tendency to talk about Ps and Vs, and while I don't drop F-bombs, I certainly hand them out like candy. I'd initially planned to do the same act as the night before, but wondered if they'd want to hear about pee in a cup and "terri-FUCKING-fying" men.

I began to get nervous, trying to rack my brain of old material that wasn't NSFW. I arrived a bit before 5pm, and got a quick tour around. It was so like those funky ad agencies you see on TV, with bright colors, hipster boys trading ideas around a pool table, and cubicles decorated with quirky bits and bobbles. The agenc also represents a couple of beer brands, so apparently Thursday's the new Friday for this bunch, as everyone was already sipping before the show began.

They started with updates on the order of business from different staff members, and the creative director spoke for a bit. Apparently, the initial goal was to get each team to tell a couple jokes, and they'd have a "joke-off." Of course, no one wants to get up in front of their work colleagues and make them laugh, so that idea was scrapped--well, it would have been if not for one guy who thought he'd give it a go.
He had long stringy old-man hair in a ponytail, and had already had a glass or two of wine. He takes the mic and begins.
"So, no one wanted to tell a joke today, but I thought I'd be brave. I'm going to tell everyone my favorite joke. Are you ready?"
The audience was surprisingly receptive, so he went on.
"What sound does a baby make when you put it in the microwave?"
People began to squirm in their chairs. A few people dared ask.
"I don't know," he says. "I was too busy masturbating."

I kid you not.
So much for worrying about keeping it clean. Clearly this was a free-for-all and standards were low.

I got up and did some of the same stuff, but got a little worried about going too far over or under the 5 minutes I was asked to do--the crowd was laughing, but it wasn't the same buzz as the night before, and being under fluorescent lighting where I could see everyone's expressions stressed me out. My joke about not understand Ozzie slang kills every time, and afterwards, as everyone was leaving, one girl said, "Oh my god, you're hilarious. I love the vagina joke!!!"

Yes, yes, folks. The vagina joke.

I walked away from that event $100 richer, and with the knowledge that I will be forever known for saying 'vagina' in the workplace.