Here's a bonus clip from the taping of my (imaginary) Jewboo Nick Kroll's upcoming Comedy Central stand-up special that I simply had to share. Watch it all the way through and you'll know why:
If you want to see more hilarity, holla at Comedy Central's site, or watch the special tonight at 10pm on Comedy Central!
Or, you know, if you like to run the streets like Bobby Bottleservice, just DVR it.
No, I did not intend to sound like a tacky publicist.
xoxo,
blacktress!
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Blast From the Past
No, I'm not referring to the movie starring Brendan Fraser and Alicia Silverstone. I'm talking about my lost youth.
I don’t know what’s up with me, but I cannot get early-90s television off the brain--maybe it's some weird PMS thing.
You know you’re hella bored at work when your first thought is, “I wish I could watch Blossom.”
Seriously. This has been nagging me since 10:42am.
Where is Mayim Bialik? Or, more important--where can a blacktress get one of those sweet hats with a flower on the front?
I cannot tell you how many times I sat in my room with my camcorder and recorded my dance moves for posterity. Blossom gets right to the heart of the matter.
I cannot tell you how many times, after a nice Brazilian wax, that I tapped dance on a piano while my dad looked on creepily. (something was going on there, I’m telling you)
Below are a list of other jams I miss--some of it may seem strange to you, gentle readers. I mean, the Cosby Show goes without saying, as does Save By the Bell, not only because everyone misses them but also because they can still be seen on Nick at Nite and TBS.
Oh god--television shows from my youth are now on Nick at Nite. I feel like I'm 72 years old. Here are some dark horses:
My Two Dads (obviously, my mention of it in the last post is what started this trip down memory lane.)
Flash Forward Hello--the old one, not that new ABC crap.
Out of This World (Because I, too, often imagined my absentee father was on a far-off planet, which is why he couldn’t take care of me)
And, of course, A Different World. Oh, how I hoped one day to go to Hillman……
I don't know what this is all about today, but I just really miss the early 90s. It was a simpler time--when Bill Clinton could get beejers whenever he wanted, and a B.A. could actually lead to employment. When , and creepy aliens could live amongst us--it was the kind of change I could believe in, you know?
Sidebar: OMG, New Massa just brought in his BF to introduce to the office. He is soooo hot multi-culti. They're like a silver-fox Benetton ad. SWOON CITY.
I want to spend my nights watching them sleep.
Is that creepy?
I don’t know what’s up with me, but I cannot get early-90s television off the brain--maybe it's some weird PMS thing.
You know you’re hella bored at work when your first thought is, “I wish I could watch Blossom.”
Seriously. This has been nagging me since 10:42am.
Where is Mayim Bialik? Or, more important--where can a blacktress get one of those sweet hats with a flower on the front?
I cannot tell you how many times I sat in my room with my camcorder and recorded my dance moves for posterity. Blossom gets right to the heart of the matter.
I cannot tell you how many times, after a nice Brazilian wax, that I tapped dance on a piano while my dad looked on creepily. (something was going on there, I’m telling you)
Below are a list of other jams I miss--some of it may seem strange to you, gentle readers. I mean, the Cosby Show goes without saying, as does Save By the Bell, not only because everyone misses them but also because they can still be seen on Nick at Nite and TBS.
Oh god--television shows from my youth are now on Nick at Nite. I feel like I'm 72 years old. Here are some dark horses:
My Two Dads (obviously, my mention of it in the last post is what started this trip down memory lane.)
Flash Forward Hello--the old one, not that new ABC crap.
Out of This World (Because I, too, often imagined my absentee father was on a far-off planet, which is why he couldn’t take care of me)
And, of course, A Different World. Oh, how I hoped one day to go to Hillman……
I don't know what this is all about today, but I just really miss the early 90s. It was a simpler time--when Bill Clinton could get beejers whenever he wanted, and a B.A. could actually lead to employment. When , and creepy aliens could live amongst us--it was the kind of change I could believe in, you know?
Sidebar: OMG, New Massa just brought in his BF to introduce to the office. He is soooo hot multi-culti. They're like a silver-fox Benetton ad. SWOON CITY.
I want to spend my nights watching them sleep.
Is that creepy?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
THERE WILL BE A BLACKTRESS IN YOUR HOME
So, as you all know, yesterday, I did my first taping for television. What fun!!
I was interviewed by a wonderful, hilarious gay man, who happily let me rant about Celebrity bodies. As I talked, he jotted down notes and smiled encouragingly, much like a mother at her shyest child's recital. (He explained he couldn't laugh out loud because his voice wasn't supposed to be heard on the taping.)
Because I was told to wear "no white, no stripes, no logos, no busy patterns, and no green, because you'll be in front of a green screen," I rolled up in one of my finest blue dresses--you know, with just enough cleave to show I'm a lady in the street, but a freak in the bed. Even though the outfit looked great, the fabric was apparently difficult for the sound guy, who kept coming up to adjust the clip-on mic because he could hear rustling.
Quite frankly, I think he was just using it as an excuse to touch me in the boob area. He had a soul patch, and his name was Mike, and he spoke in an unnecessarily sexy voice, all smoky and low and full of deadpan. I enjoyed messing with him every time he came over to press the mic and come up with new ways to make sure it stayed put. "Are you trying to give me a mammogram, Mike? You're obvi checking for lumps."
He was so not having the blacktress' jest. I think it's cause I was the last interview of the day and they were getting sleepy.
We went through the list he'd gave me, and I had jotted down jokes, and he let me refer to them on set, which was cool. However, it really was the random off-the-cuff stuff that they liked best, such as when I referred to Matthew McConaughey as "a kind of sexy rotisserie chicken. He's always juicy and glistening and in motion, the breasts are highlighted, he's looking succulent."
They also appreciated when I totally went off on a tangent unrelated to beach bodies and explained my theory that Spencer Pratt looks like a Furby.
Srsly, do you see it??? They are both freaking me out!!!!
I left feeling good, with the producer and the makeup artist telling me I was great, and the producer saying--and I QUOTE--"I hope we can get you to do some more of this." I won't know what bits they end up using until it airs, and I won't even know the air date until it's edited, but it's scheduled for June.
Even though some things are up in the air, one thing is for certain: Even if it's just for 12 seconds, I AM GOING TO BE ON YOUR TV.
I was interviewed by a wonderful, hilarious gay man, who happily let me rant about Celebrity bodies. As I talked, he jotted down notes and smiled encouragingly, much like a mother at her shyest child's recital. (He explained he couldn't laugh out loud because his voice wasn't supposed to be heard on the taping.)
Because I was told to wear "no white, no stripes, no logos, no busy patterns, and no green, because you'll be in front of a green screen," I rolled up in one of my finest blue dresses--you know, with just enough cleave to show I'm a lady in the street, but a freak in the bed. Even though the outfit looked great, the fabric was apparently difficult for the sound guy, who kept coming up to adjust the clip-on mic because he could hear rustling.
Quite frankly, I think he was just using it as an excuse to touch me in the boob area. He had a soul patch, and his name was Mike, and he spoke in an unnecessarily sexy voice, all smoky and low and full of deadpan. I enjoyed messing with him every time he came over to press the mic and come up with new ways to make sure it stayed put. "Are you trying to give me a mammogram, Mike? You're obvi checking for lumps."
He was so not having the blacktress' jest. I think it's cause I was the last interview of the day and they were getting sleepy.
We went through the list he'd gave me, and I had jotted down jokes, and he let me refer to them on set, which was cool. However, it really was the random off-the-cuff stuff that they liked best, such as when I referred to Matthew McConaughey as "a kind of sexy rotisserie chicken. He's always juicy and glistening and in motion, the breasts are highlighted, he's looking succulent."
They also appreciated when I totally went off on a tangent unrelated to beach bodies and explained my theory that Spencer Pratt looks like a Furby.
Srsly, do you see it??? They are both freaking me out!!!!
I left feeling good, with the producer and the makeup artist telling me I was great, and the producer saying--and I QUOTE--"I hope we can get you to do some more of this." I won't know what bits they end up using until it airs, and I won't even know the air date until it's edited, but it's scheduled for June.
Even though some things are up in the air, one thing is for certain: Even if it's just for 12 seconds, I AM GOING TO BE ON YOUR TV.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Black History Month is Gonna be FIERCE
Last night’s premiere episode of “Drag Race” was so good, I almost had a heart attack from pure pleasure.
I don’t know if my words can do it justice. I will provide a brief rundown of the new characters, as well as things I learned from this episode.
The 12 Contestants (In Order of Appearance):
Nicole Paige Brooks, from Atlanta, GA. I'm not feeling her face for some reason.
Shangela "the debutantess from the deep south" - she's bourgie, but also your homegirl! Shangela’s only been in the drag game 5 months, but don’t hold that against her.
Raven She has double chin piercings. She doesn't carry a purse and has an arm tatt!
Jujubee,25, from Boston, MA. She’s a sassy Asian. “Jujubee’s really into accessories,” she says.
Sahara Davenport, 25, NYC – She and Shangela went to college together, have been friends forever!!
Morgan McMichaels - Morgan and Raven know each other. everyone’s besties!
Mystique Summers, from Texas – she’s a big gal. “Fuck these skinny bitches” she says from the get-go. FIERCE.
Jessica Wild, from San Juan, Puerto Rico. I love how Puerto Rico is involved for the 2nd year in a row.
Sonique, also from ATL, and is friends with Nicole Paige Brooks (it’s a small drag world after all!!!)
Tatianna - 21, from VA. She is sooooo pretty. Like, I just want to go to the mall with her and judge people in the food court. She says that she walked out of the house in drag at 14 years old. LOVE IT.
Pandora Boxx - looks kinda like Kathy Griffin....wait, he just said, "I’m a big chunk of Kathy Griffin" – DRAG QUEEN MIND MELD. Pandora’s a little too mannish for me, I must say, but she seems sweet and dedicated.
Tyra Sanchez, 21, from FL. I don’t like her teeth, but she looks so fierce. Best quote of the episode: "I had my Rihanna hair on... I was very much a lady."
The whole episode’s theme was “Gone With the Wind,” and the opening photo shoot was beyond exciting. Bronzed beefcake Mike Ruiz, photographer/judge from last season, was taking pics. His best line of the episode:
“Okay, here’s the context: It’s the height of the Civil War. I want you to straddle the cannon, work the fabric, and flirt with the guys.” – Mike’s notes to Jujubee, the first girl for the photo shoot.
Um, was there cannon straddling at the height of the Civil War? Did I miss that day in history class?
Other things I learned from last night’s episode:
“When I saw the fan, I was excited, because fans make everything prettier.”
– Tatianna, on the shoot.
So true, girl. So true.
Key West, Florida, is apparently a gay haven, judging by the commercial shown mid-way through the episode. That would explain why I enjoyed Spring Break 2K4 so much…..
"We’re not judging potential ...this is RuPaul's drag race, not RuPaul's school for girls.” – Ru on Shangela…..
I wish RuPaul's School for Girls was a real place...and that it took grown women.
The most important thing I learned last night came from Mystique, and it's this: when all else fails, DO A SPLIT. I don’t care if you’re 500 pounds, be prepared to break it down.
I don’t know if my words can do it justice. I will provide a brief rundown of the new characters, as well as things I learned from this episode.
The 12 Contestants (In Order of Appearance):
Nicole Paige Brooks, from Atlanta, GA. I'm not feeling her face for some reason.
Shangela "the debutantess from the deep south" - she's bourgie, but also your homegirl! Shangela’s only been in the drag game 5 months, but don’t hold that against her.
Raven She has double chin piercings. She doesn't carry a purse and has an arm tatt!
Jujubee,25, from Boston, MA. She’s a sassy Asian. “Jujubee’s really into accessories,” she says.
Sahara Davenport, 25, NYC – She and Shangela went to college together, have been friends forever!!
Morgan McMichaels - Morgan and Raven know each other. everyone’s besties!
Mystique Summers, from Texas – she’s a big gal. “Fuck these skinny bitches” she says from the get-go. FIERCE.
Jessica Wild, from San Juan, Puerto Rico. I love how Puerto Rico is involved for the 2nd year in a row.
Sonique, also from ATL, and is friends with Nicole Paige Brooks (it’s a small drag world after all!!!)
Tatianna - 21, from VA. She is sooooo pretty. Like, I just want to go to the mall with her and judge people in the food court. She says that she walked out of the house in drag at 14 years old. LOVE IT.
Pandora Boxx - looks kinda like Kathy Griffin....wait, he just said, "I’m a big chunk of Kathy Griffin" – DRAG QUEEN MIND MELD. Pandora’s a little too mannish for me, I must say, but she seems sweet and dedicated.
Tyra Sanchez, 21, from FL. I don’t like her teeth, but she looks so fierce. Best quote of the episode: "I had my Rihanna hair on... I was very much a lady."
The whole episode’s theme was “Gone With the Wind,” and the opening photo shoot was beyond exciting. Bronzed beefcake Mike Ruiz, photographer/judge from last season, was taking pics. His best line of the episode:
“Okay, here’s the context: It’s the height of the Civil War. I want you to straddle the cannon, work the fabric, and flirt with the guys.” – Mike’s notes to Jujubee, the first girl for the photo shoot.
Um, was there cannon straddling at the height of the Civil War? Did I miss that day in history class?
Other things I learned from last night’s episode:
“When I saw the fan, I was excited, because fans make everything prettier.”
– Tatianna, on the shoot.
So true, girl. So true.
Key West, Florida, is apparently a gay haven, judging by the commercial shown mid-way through the episode. That would explain why I enjoyed Spring Break 2K4 so much…..
"We’re not judging potential ...this is RuPaul's drag race, not RuPaul's school for girls.” – Ru on Shangela…..
I wish RuPaul's School for Girls was a real place...and that it took grown women.
The most important thing I learned last night came from Mystique, and it's this: when all else fails, DO A SPLIT. I don’t care if you’re 500 pounds, be prepared to break it down.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Boob Tube
Oh my god, just when I thought Australian TV was crap, it goes and surprises me like nothing else.
I'm at home now, trying to take my mind off the fact that Mr. Weasley has yet to respond to an email I sent three full days ago. I'm trying to silence the voices in my head that say, "see, this is why you'll die alone"-- which involves watching television.
Now, I'm normally a "Neighhbours" girl. I mean, it featured Natalie Imbruglia AND Kylie, for goodness sake--anyone who's anyone in Australia has been on this show. "Home and Away" is the other big soap, and it's based in Sydney, while "Neighbours" is based in Melbourne." The rivalry is very East Coast/West Coast rap.
Hardcore in every way.
I made a call early on, when I first saw "Neighbours" in England, and my allegiance has been unwavering.
Until now.
I was just watching the last few minutes of "Home and Away," as I waited for 'How I Met Your Mother'. I don't know what happened beforehand, but all the teens were in a tizzy over some list that some bitchy blonde girl wrote. Apparently, she wrote who was cute and who was not, which you know had everyone all upset. I don't know the characters names, but you know, pretty white kids with problems, no real difference. Basically, the bitchy blonde girl wrote that another bitchy blonde girl, "thinks she's hot." So BBG #2 went up to her and was like, "How could you say that about me?"
BBG #1 is all, "What do you mean?"
BBG #2 says, "I don't think I'm hot," all angry-like.
Then, in a total unforeseen turn, BBG #1 goes, "You don't? Well I do."
THEN GRABS THE GIRL AND KISSES HER!!!!
HOLLA AT TEEN LESBIAN KISSES BEFORE PRIMETIME!!
Guys, it was so amazing. Okay, to be fair, they totally cut away after she pulled her in, then showed the end of the kiss in a long shot, but still! It wasn't even 7:30pm. Tweens and teens were awake, and probably sitting down to dinner with "Hom(o) and Away" in the background! Why is Australia so cool? Is this almost as good as Degrassi?! I can't recall teen lesbian kisses on basic cable on the Northern Hemi. Can anyone jog my memory?
It almost makes me want to not leave, but then I remember I'm bored.
I'm at home now, trying to take my mind off the fact that Mr. Weasley has yet to respond to an email I sent three full days ago. I'm trying to silence the voices in my head that say, "see, this is why you'll die alone"-- which involves watching television.
Now, I'm normally a "Neighhbours" girl. I mean, it featured Natalie Imbruglia AND Kylie, for goodness sake--anyone who's anyone in Australia has been on this show. "Home and Away" is the other big soap, and it's based in Sydney, while "Neighbours" is based in Melbourne." The rivalry is very East Coast/West Coast rap.
Hardcore in every way.
I made a call early on, when I first saw "Neighbours" in England, and my allegiance has been unwavering.
Until now.
I was just watching the last few minutes of "Home and Away," as I waited for 'How I Met Your Mother'. I don't know what happened beforehand, but all the teens were in a tizzy over some list that some bitchy blonde girl wrote. Apparently, she wrote who was cute and who was not, which you know had everyone all upset. I don't know the characters names, but you know, pretty white kids with problems, no real difference. Basically, the bitchy blonde girl wrote that another bitchy blonde girl, "thinks she's hot." So BBG #2 went up to her and was like, "How could you say that about me?"
BBG #1 is all, "What do you mean?"
BBG #2 says, "I don't think I'm hot," all angry-like.
Then, in a total unforeseen turn, BBG #1 goes, "You don't? Well I do."
THEN GRABS THE GIRL AND KISSES HER!!!!
HOLLA AT TEEN LESBIAN KISSES BEFORE PRIMETIME!!
Guys, it was so amazing. Okay, to be fair, they totally cut away after she pulled her in, then showed the end of the kiss in a long shot, but still! It wasn't even 7:30pm. Tweens and teens were awake, and probably sitting down to dinner with "Hom(o) and Away" in the background! Why is Australia so cool? Is this almost as good as Degrassi?! I can't recall teen lesbian kisses on basic cable on the Northern Hemi. Can anyone jog my memory?
It almost makes me want to not leave, but then I remember I'm bored.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I DEMAND you come back, Dexter!
So, as you know, I’ve been jilted, once again, by a man. Although crazy artists do occasionally provide the boost needed during the work day, I find I need something stronger to really handle my emotional scandal once I’m away from the distractions of the plantation. Oftentimes this is some sort of documentary on Discovery Health, where I can watch everyday people suffer unspeakable tragedies and display the triumph of the human spirit.
I realized the effect these documentaries had on me many moons ago, when I was watching the special “I Eat 30,000 Calories a Day,” which followed 3 morbidly obese people as they consumed more food than it seemed humanly possible. Each segment reached its crescendo when the omniscient director would place all the food the person ate in a given day on one table, so they could really see how much they were taking in.
“I guess do eat a lot.” Said one British woman matter-of-factly.
Yes. Yes, you do.
Lately, Discovery Health hasn’t been doing it for me, and last weekend I needed a fix to get through the dark times.
That’s when I discovered the National Geographic Channel—or “Nat Geo” as they like to call it—where they aren’t afraid to go to the far reaches of the third world and beyond to bring you images of terrifying and captivating deformities. These tales of genetic anomalies are most effective for silencing my tears, for nothing really helps you put petty crap in perspective like seeing an Indian girl who was born with 8 limbs (I HEART LAKSHMI).
I learned the story of Lakshmi last Sunday night, when I was only able to fall asleep after watching “The Girl With 8 Limbs,” followed by “The Science of Dwarfism,” and then “The Science of Gigantism.” (Watching the gigantism doc actually made me feel somewhat better, as I realized it was possible for a glass of milk to be too tall.) As I stared at the television, transfixed, I felt a spark of hope as the Indian doctors took on this groundbreaking surgery. When Lakshmi survived—with only 4 LIMBS—I knew that all was right in the world, even if I was destined to die alone.
The magical effect of this programming is potent, but not long-lasting, and over the last two days, I’ve been in need of another hit. Unfortunately, every time I check the program listings, it’s just stuff about “cooking light” and “people who get kidnapped while vacationing overseas”—bor-ing! I quickly changed the channel to Showtime so I could watch Dexter On Demand. Because, when all else fails, nothing lifts the mood like watching an hour-long drama about a serial killer who makes other serial killers his victims.
I started watching Dexter for the first time about 3 weeks ago, when I stayed in on a sunny Memorial Day and ended up watching 7 episodes in a row. For some reason, getting into the mind of a psychopath was riveting, and that Michael C. Hall is no slouch to look at—even when he’s killing. He really shows the seedy underbelly of everyone, and after a couple of episodes, I kinda start to get where he’s coming from. (Apparently, my therapist thinks this is a “red flag”—to me, it’s a sign of fine screenwriting)
I started season 2 a couple of weeks ago, and came home last night ready to dig back into the show—and take my mind off of things. However, when I went to the On-Demand menu, I was greeted with a site more frightening than the girl with 8 limbs: DEXTER WAS NO LONGER AVAILABLE ON DEMAND.
WTF?!
Um, Showtime, how the f*&% can you tell me I can watch something when I want, but then not let me watch it?! How can you suck me in with your riveting nail-biting drama and then yank it away from me before I can get closure?! How am I supposed to get through this latest rejection without you, Dexter, to tell me all humans are worthless?! HOW?!!!!
Oh god.
How could they both leave me at the same time?!
So, I’m going to go home to night and pray to black Jesus (hair like lamb’s wool!) that there’s some damn good documentary on Nat Geo or D-Health—I don’t know, something about a girl born with a twin inside her liver, a boy with the genetic makeup of a Labrador, or a paraplegic who climbed an ancient Mayan temple. Whatever will remind me that it’s not as bad as I think it is.
Please come back to me, Dex. I need to know how it ends. You're the only man I can trust, because....well, I know that if you didn't like me you'd kill me in a methodical manner. There's no in-between with you.
I realized the effect these documentaries had on me many moons ago, when I was watching the special “I Eat 30,000 Calories a Day,” which followed 3 morbidly obese people as they consumed more food than it seemed humanly possible. Each segment reached its crescendo when the omniscient director would place all the food the person ate in a given day on one table, so they could really see how much they were taking in.
“I guess do eat a lot.” Said one British woman matter-of-factly.
Yes. Yes, you do.
Lately, Discovery Health hasn’t been doing it for me, and last weekend I needed a fix to get through the dark times.
That’s when I discovered the National Geographic Channel—or “Nat Geo” as they like to call it—where they aren’t afraid to go to the far reaches of the third world and beyond to bring you images of terrifying and captivating deformities. These tales of genetic anomalies are most effective for silencing my tears, for nothing really helps you put petty crap in perspective like seeing an Indian girl who was born with 8 limbs (I HEART LAKSHMI).
I learned the story of Lakshmi last Sunday night, when I was only able to fall asleep after watching “The Girl With 8 Limbs,” followed by “The Science of Dwarfism,” and then “The Science of Gigantism.” (Watching the gigantism doc actually made me feel somewhat better, as I realized it was possible for a glass of milk to be too tall.) As I stared at the television, transfixed, I felt a spark of hope as the Indian doctors took on this groundbreaking surgery. When Lakshmi survived—with only 4 LIMBS—I knew that all was right in the world, even if I was destined to die alone.
The magical effect of this programming is potent, but not long-lasting, and over the last two days, I’ve been in need of another hit. Unfortunately, every time I check the program listings, it’s just stuff about “cooking light” and “people who get kidnapped while vacationing overseas”—bor-ing! I quickly changed the channel to Showtime so I could watch Dexter On Demand. Because, when all else fails, nothing lifts the mood like watching an hour-long drama about a serial killer who makes other serial killers his victims.
I started watching Dexter for the first time about 3 weeks ago, when I stayed in on a sunny Memorial Day and ended up watching 7 episodes in a row. For some reason, getting into the mind of a psychopath was riveting, and that Michael C. Hall is no slouch to look at—even when he’s killing. He really shows the seedy underbelly of everyone, and after a couple of episodes, I kinda start to get where he’s coming from. (Apparently, my therapist thinks this is a “red flag”—to me, it’s a sign of fine screenwriting)
I started season 2 a couple of weeks ago, and came home last night ready to dig back into the show—and take my mind off of things. However, when I went to the On-Demand menu, I was greeted with a site more frightening than the girl with 8 limbs: DEXTER WAS NO LONGER AVAILABLE ON DEMAND.
WTF?!
Um, Showtime, how the f*&% can you tell me I can watch something when I want, but then not let me watch it?! How can you suck me in with your riveting nail-biting drama and then yank it away from me before I can get closure?! How am I supposed to get through this latest rejection without you, Dexter, to tell me all humans are worthless?! HOW?!!!!
Oh god.
How could they both leave me at the same time?!
So, I’m going to go home to night and pray to black Jesus (hair like lamb’s wool!) that there’s some damn good documentary on Nat Geo or D-Health—I don’t know, something about a girl born with a twin inside her liver, a boy with the genetic makeup of a Labrador, or a paraplegic who climbed an ancient Mayan temple. Whatever will remind me that it’s not as bad as I think it is.
Please come back to me, Dex. I need to know how it ends. You're the only man I can trust, because....well, I know that if you didn't like me you'd kill me in a methodical manner. There's no in-between with you.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Why Dawson's Creek Has Made It Impossible For Me to Have a Healthy Relationship. Ever.
WARNING: The following post has nothing to do with BHM...unless you count the fact that it was written by a Negress.
Looking back on my fiascos with members of the male gender, I have often wondered if there was something inherently wrong with me. Despite being a smart girl with above average social skills, when it comes to guys, I can be dumb as bricks. Honestly, I may be some sort of idiot savant; a female Rain Man who just can’t function in the presence of a Y chromosome (I’m not sure what the “savant” part is yet). If I had a nickel for every conversation I’ve had that started with, “I just don’t understand why he doesn’t LIKE ME!” (often slurred through tears), I’d have $5.65, easily. With college and high school behind me, I am finally in a position to redefine myself and break old habits. I, my friends, am on the road to recovery. And I have completed the first step: I admit I have a problem. I am now onto the next step, which is identifying the cause of said problem. Now, while it would be quite convenient to blame my mother, father, or one horrible date, I won’t take the easy way out—no sir.I blame Dawson’s Creek.
This realization happened a couple years ago, and is really resonating now. Let’s travel back in time, gentle reader…
6:00pm—the height of rush hour. Me and at least half of Manhattan are packed into one subway car. As I grip the center pole for dear life (and try to inch away from the old man who is coughing up a lung), I overhear two teenage girls having a conversation.
“Wait, Rachel, are you still dating Cory?”
I immediately look up. I love gossip, even if I have no connection to the parties involved.
“Yeah,” Rachel says slowly. “Melissa, don’t give me that look— it’s going good.”
“Really?” Melissa rolls her eyes, and pauses. “Rach, he was a total asshole at homecoming.”
“I know, but it’s okay. Afterwards we talked about it and he was like, ‘Nothing happened with Lana, I just want to be with you.’”
“He really said that?” Melissa softens.
“Yes.” She nods intensely, then leans in closer. “He even said, ‘You make me want to be a good boyfriend.’”
“Oh my god, he totally pulled a Pacey.”
"I know. It was so sweet. I’m like totally his Joey.”
The girls go quiet, as they think of Cory with tenderness. The subway lurches forward and the old man knocks into me, filling my nostrils with the smell of tobacco and phlegm.
For those of you who spent your childhoods doing productive things like reading and playing outside, “pulling a Pacey” refers to the character arc of Pacey Witter, from the hit teen drama Dawson’s Creek. Pacey went from reckless smart aleck to sensitive, intuitive businessman over the course of 6 seasons. Though Pacey is in no way a real person, his personality and character arc can be referenced as though you were speaking of an old friend.
And I don’t know what’s sadder—that the girl did this in conversation without a hint of irony, or that I actually knew what she was talking about.
Dawson’s Creek debuted on the WB network in the winter of my freshman year of high school—or, as I like to call it, the worst of times. There were 34 new students in my grade, and cliques were rivaling for those that would best fit their membership. Meanwhile, this madwoman—let’s call her “my algebra teacher”— was oppressing me with crazy rules that were just not gonna fly. I said to her, “Listen lady, you cannot just come into my life and tell me a letter stands for a number and expect me to be okay with it.” She disagreed.
Anyway, back to Dawson's. The episodes often began with a long shot of suburbia in all its glory. Capeside: A beautiful coastal every-town, where Caucasian youth brim with hope and enthusiasm. It was pretty much a walking Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. If you’re a viewer who is darker than a paper bag, you already feel a little awkward.
Sidebar: Why do television shows that are meant to appeal to the 18-34 year old demographic function under the assumption that there is only one White/right way to appeal to them? There are many places in America where the minority is rapidly becoming the majority, and the refusal to reflect this in popular television only serves to alienate those groups and reinforce stereotypes. Hell, I go sailing. I love it. I eat Chips Ahoy cookies, I watch Gilligan’s Island. Why didn’t we see a blacktress paddling up the creek?!
Sorry, I digress.
Jen and Joey were the ladies of the creek; they were cut from the same cloth, but Jen was the left over scraps. And for some strange reason, both of these girls fought of the affections of television’s worst leading man.
Yeah, you heard me. Dawson Leery was a lame-o. That’s Spanish for “one who is lame.” As I’ve already said, I was a film major in college. I knew guys like Dawson, who constantly quoted movies, lived life as though it had a soundtrack, and wanted to be Spielberg—these guys had no friends. On top of that, Dawson said things like, “I'm talking about the romantic apotheosis.” And “It -- you call it wish fulfillment or delusion of the highest adolescent order. But, Joey, I'm tellin' ya, something primal exists between us.” No one between the ages of 12 and 22 talks like that! First of all, you don’t learn such words until it’s time for the SAT verbal, and once you know them, you would never actually use them in conversation. That’s how you get bitch slapped. How anyone like Dawson got his own creek in the first place is beyond me.
I remember the first time I fell in love with a boy. It was my junior year of high school on the plantation and he was a new potential Massa. We instantly became friends and spent all our time together--he treated me like an equal, and he even liked Negro music. And he. Was. Cute. He was smart and funny and wanted to be a filmmaker—he was my Dawson (though much less lame and slightly more hipster). I remember watching Dawson’s Creek one night and actually crying, because I could relate to feeling like the rejected friend.
And the night I decided to write “My Dawson” a letter telling him how I felt…. Yep, I’d watched an episode of “The Creek.” As I wrote, I was tragic and hopeful. I poured out my soul, inserted song lyrics, and wrote in my best handwriting using a purple pen.I re-wrote it and re-wrote it, and finally decided I couldn’t take the pain any longer. He had to know how I felt so that he could finally fall in love with me. I knew if I could muster beautiful, flowing prose, he was would reciprocate just like the real Dawson. Guys were capable of such self-expression, I just hadn’t given him the opportunity.
So I handed him the letter one day after gym class, as he headed home. I distinctly remember it. He was saying goodbye and I tried to breezily pass the letter to him. When he asked what it was, I just told him to read it later, “No big deal.” When I felt the weight of the letter travel from my hand to his, it felt heavy. Later that night, I wrote in my journal, “he didn’t even know he was holding my heart in his hands. Perhaps he will give me his.”
And the next day, he came to my locker and smiled. We chatted as though nothing had happened. I knew that once we had a moment alone, he would talk about the “romantic apotheosis.”
But he didn’t. He never said anything about it.
When I confronted him, he said he didn’t want to say anything cause he didn’t want us to stop being friends.
So much for life imitating art.
I cannot count how many times I sat in front of the television watching, let’s say, Saved By the Bell or Pimp My Ride and secretly thought, “I want that.” As kids, we wanted the toys or the Happy Meal; we were determined to “collect all four!” of whatever was being sold. As teenagers, we wanted it and the persona attached—whether it’s the hair color of a certain actress, a Quarter Pounder with cheese, or a ride that is indeed pimped. And these desires were far worse than a high-calorie nugget made of “chicken product.” After all, toys and food could be bought. But if you wanted to be popular or get a boyfriend, you had to change who you were to fit whatever standard was being held at the moment. Between commercials, teasers for the next episode, and the weekly onslaught of these television shows, it was impossible to shake these feelings unless you lived in an igloo. For so many young women, this want can extend far beyond material possessions and become an innate desire to change oneself and become someone that is not actually real. Such expectations set us up to fail and only reinforce feelings of inadequacy.
“Um, so what are you going to do about it, Sojourner?” You ask.
“I’m going to expose it for all it’s worth, like I did just now” I say to you confidently.
“And? We all know TV isn’t reality—“
“Even reality TV?” I lower my eyes over my spectacles.
“No, that’s different.” You mumble, taken aback by my clever word play.
“How so?”
“It’s real people in real situations, being forced to do crazy things. It doesn’t get any more real.”
I chuckle lightly and wipe my brow. “Oh, you poor naïve soul. That’s all editing and camera tricks. Nothing is unfiltered.”
“Wait, so you mean Survivor—?"
“Is simply a bunch of actors who got rejected from the cast of RENT, trying to make ends meet.”
“Yeah, well… your mom’s trying to make ends meet!”
“That was real mature,” I scoff, as you stop reading this bloggery.
“Oh, so you think you’re better than me now?!”
I don't.
You keep reading.
It's a hell of a lot better than watching TV.
Looking back on my fiascos with members of the male gender, I have often wondered if there was something inherently wrong with me. Despite being a smart girl with above average social skills, when it comes to guys, I can be dumb as bricks. Honestly, I may be some sort of idiot savant; a female Rain Man who just can’t function in the presence of a Y chromosome (I’m not sure what the “savant” part is yet). If I had a nickel for every conversation I’ve had that started with, “I just don’t understand why he doesn’t LIKE ME!” (often slurred through tears), I’d have $5.65, easily. With college and high school behind me, I am finally in a position to redefine myself and break old habits. I, my friends, am on the road to recovery. And I have completed the first step: I admit I have a problem. I am now onto the next step, which is identifying the cause of said problem. Now, while it would be quite convenient to blame my mother, father, or one horrible date, I won’t take the easy way out—no sir.I blame Dawson’s Creek.
This realization happened a couple years ago, and is really resonating now. Let’s travel back in time, gentle reader…
6:00pm—the height of rush hour. Me and at least half of Manhattan are packed into one subway car. As I grip the center pole for dear life (and try to inch away from the old man who is coughing up a lung), I overhear two teenage girls having a conversation.
“Wait, Rachel, are you still dating Cory?”
I immediately look up. I love gossip, even if I have no connection to the parties involved.
“Yeah,” Rachel says slowly. “Melissa, don’t give me that look— it’s going good.”
“Really?” Melissa rolls her eyes, and pauses. “Rach, he was a total asshole at homecoming.”
“I know, but it’s okay. Afterwards we talked about it and he was like, ‘Nothing happened with Lana, I just want to be with you.’”
“He really said that?” Melissa softens.
“Yes.” She nods intensely, then leans in closer. “He even said, ‘You make me want to be a good boyfriend.’”
“Oh my god, he totally pulled a Pacey.”
"I know. It was so sweet. I’m like totally his Joey.”
The girls go quiet, as they think of Cory with tenderness. The subway lurches forward and the old man knocks into me, filling my nostrils with the smell of tobacco and phlegm.
For those of you who spent your childhoods doing productive things like reading and playing outside, “pulling a Pacey” refers to the character arc of Pacey Witter, from the hit teen drama Dawson’s Creek. Pacey went from reckless smart aleck to sensitive, intuitive businessman over the course of 6 seasons. Though Pacey is in no way a real person, his personality and character arc can be referenced as though you were speaking of an old friend.
And I don’t know what’s sadder—that the girl did this in conversation without a hint of irony, or that I actually knew what she was talking about.
Dawson’s Creek debuted on the WB network in the winter of my freshman year of high school—or, as I like to call it, the worst of times. There were 34 new students in my grade, and cliques were rivaling for those that would best fit their membership. Meanwhile, this madwoman—let’s call her “my algebra teacher”— was oppressing me with crazy rules that were just not gonna fly. I said to her, “Listen lady, you cannot just come into my life and tell me a letter stands for a number and expect me to be okay with it.” She disagreed.
Anyway, back to Dawson's. The episodes often began with a long shot of suburbia in all its glory. Capeside: A beautiful coastal every-town, where Caucasian youth brim with hope and enthusiasm. It was pretty much a walking Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. If you’re a viewer who is darker than a paper bag, you already feel a little awkward.
Sidebar: Why do television shows that are meant to appeal to the 18-34 year old demographic function under the assumption that there is only one White/right way to appeal to them? There are many places in America where the minority is rapidly becoming the majority, and the refusal to reflect this in popular television only serves to alienate those groups and reinforce stereotypes. Hell, I go sailing. I love it. I eat Chips Ahoy cookies, I watch Gilligan’s Island. Why didn’t we see a blacktress paddling up the creek?!
Sorry, I digress.
Jen and Joey were the ladies of the creek; they were cut from the same cloth, but Jen was the left over scraps. And for some strange reason, both of these girls fought of the affections of television’s worst leading man.
Yeah, you heard me. Dawson Leery was a lame-o. That’s Spanish for “one who is lame.” As I’ve already said, I was a film major in college. I knew guys like Dawson, who constantly quoted movies, lived life as though it had a soundtrack, and wanted to be Spielberg—these guys had no friends. On top of that, Dawson said things like, “I'm talking about the romantic apotheosis.” And “It -- you call it wish fulfillment or delusion of the highest adolescent order. But, Joey, I'm tellin' ya, something primal exists between us.” No one between the ages of 12 and 22 talks like that! First of all, you don’t learn such words until it’s time for the SAT verbal, and once you know them, you would never actually use them in conversation. That’s how you get bitch slapped. How anyone like Dawson got his own creek in the first place is beyond me.
I remember the first time I fell in love with a boy. It was my junior year of high school on the plantation and he was a new potential Massa. We instantly became friends and spent all our time together--he treated me like an equal, and he even liked Negro music. And he. Was. Cute. He was smart and funny and wanted to be a filmmaker—he was my Dawson (though much less lame and slightly more hipster). I remember watching Dawson’s Creek one night and actually crying, because I could relate to feeling like the rejected friend.
And the night I decided to write “My Dawson” a letter telling him how I felt…. Yep, I’d watched an episode of “The Creek.” As I wrote, I was tragic and hopeful. I poured out my soul, inserted song lyrics, and wrote in my best handwriting using a purple pen.I re-wrote it and re-wrote it, and finally decided I couldn’t take the pain any longer. He had to know how I felt so that he could finally fall in love with me. I knew if I could muster beautiful, flowing prose, he was would reciprocate just like the real Dawson. Guys were capable of such self-expression, I just hadn’t given him the opportunity.
So I handed him the letter one day after gym class, as he headed home. I distinctly remember it. He was saying goodbye and I tried to breezily pass the letter to him. When he asked what it was, I just told him to read it later, “No big deal.” When I felt the weight of the letter travel from my hand to his, it felt heavy. Later that night, I wrote in my journal, “he didn’t even know he was holding my heart in his hands. Perhaps he will give me his.”
And the next day, he came to my locker and smiled. We chatted as though nothing had happened. I knew that once we had a moment alone, he would talk about the “romantic apotheosis.”
But he didn’t. He never said anything about it.
When I confronted him, he said he didn’t want to say anything cause he didn’t want us to stop being friends.
So much for life imitating art.
I cannot count how many times I sat in front of the television watching, let’s say, Saved By the Bell or Pimp My Ride and secretly thought, “I want that.” As kids, we wanted the toys or the Happy Meal; we were determined to “collect all four!” of whatever was being sold. As teenagers, we wanted it and the persona attached—whether it’s the hair color of a certain actress, a Quarter Pounder with cheese, or a ride that is indeed pimped. And these desires were far worse than a high-calorie nugget made of “chicken product.” After all, toys and food could be bought. But if you wanted to be popular or get a boyfriend, you had to change who you were to fit whatever standard was being held at the moment. Between commercials, teasers for the next episode, and the weekly onslaught of these television shows, it was impossible to shake these feelings unless you lived in an igloo. For so many young women, this want can extend far beyond material possessions and become an innate desire to change oneself and become someone that is not actually real. Such expectations set us up to fail and only reinforce feelings of inadequacy.
“Um, so what are you going to do about it, Sojourner?” You ask.
“I’m going to expose it for all it’s worth, like I did just now” I say to you confidently.
“And? We all know TV isn’t reality—“
“Even reality TV?” I lower my eyes over my spectacles.
“No, that’s different.” You mumble, taken aback by my clever word play.
“How so?”
“It’s real people in real situations, being forced to do crazy things. It doesn’t get any more real.”
I chuckle lightly and wipe my brow. “Oh, you poor naïve soul. That’s all editing and camera tricks. Nothing is unfiltered.”
“Wait, so you mean Survivor—?"
“Is simply a bunch of actors who got rejected from the cast of RENT, trying to make ends meet.”
“Yeah, well… your mom’s trying to make ends meet!”
“That was real mature,” I scoff, as you stop reading this bloggery.
“Oh, so you think you’re better than me now?!”
I don't.
You keep reading.
It's a hell of a lot better than watching TV.
Damn you, Caucasian youth!!! You get me every time!!!!!
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