"So then he left and was just like, 'I gotta go.' Then later I texted him, 'How's packing going?' He writes back, 'It sucks. I'm loading the car now.' Then I wrote, 'I had fun last night.' And he wrote, 'Yeah. Let's get together Friday night.' So, like, he wants to see me, you know? He wouldn't have said 'Let's get together, you know?'
Steve? You mean Steve my real estate agent? He wouldn't say anything.
No, he knows Glen. He knows the situation.
Steve said he texted him and he said it was 'hot, drunk sex,' so, he must have liked it, you know?
Ugh, this thing is not taking my card.
I don't know. What?
We didn't go to breakfast the next morning, but I was so dead asleep, he said he couldn't even wake me.
It's weird.
I don't know.
But, like, we've done this before, you know? He wouldn't keep coming home with me if he wasn't into it, you know?
I just--"
As much as I wanted to hear the end of this story, I had to get back to the plantation. But seriously, I was riveted. There was so much I needed to know, such as....
How can you be talking about your 'hot drunk sex' all up in the bank with your outside voice on a cell phone?
Your real estate agent is getting you dudes? Would that make him your pimp?
Which I hope you already know. But, like, this is for real, guys! I’m not just funny in my head or on the internet—I have been deemed funny and added to a roster that includes the dopest lady comics in the country!!!!
I'm the first one on Friday at 8pm, and second on Saturday!
Tomorrow afternoon I head for San Francisco and I must say, I am nervous as all get-out. What began as California Dreams have become California nightmares. What if the crowd has no California Love for me? What if the California “Gurls” spew whipped cream from their boobies whenever they don’t like one of my punchlines? Will I ever want to go Back, Back to Cali, Cali?
I just have no idea what I’m in for—I just found out two days ago that the current high temp in SF is 62 degrees, and my mind is officially blown. There is no certainty in this life; all bets are fucking OFF. If I can’t even count on some semblance of summer weather, how can I make any assumptions about the audience? Will the crowd be full of supportive gays or crunchy hippies? What about people who aren’t stereotypes??? I won’t even know how to cope!
My whole bit about not wanting children better not get me boo’d off stage.
I’ve been hitting open mics over the last couple weeks, but I haven’t had a booked show in a while. Plus, I don’t even know what the venue’s going to be like. Is the stage wide or narrow, deep or shallow? How bright are the lights—are we talking ‘get out of the light, Carol Ann’ type of bright or an ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ type of spotlight? I was all set to wear cute dresses on stage, but now that it’s gonna be about 50 degrees by showtime, I’ve gotta find something that’s both cute and warm—The shows are being filmed, streamed, and circulated—and I’ve got some new folks to meet!
Yesterday I got an email from a graduate student from an SF university, asking if she could interview me for her dissertation. I kid you not, gentle readers. I have been found and sought out for my blackting and comedy skillz. Hours before that request, I got a (far less sketchy) facebook message from a comic who said he saw me on the internets and “Just wanted to let you know that I am a big fan of your work. I would love to be added as one of your friends.” A FAN OF MY WORK? If this is a sketchy spambot, I’ll take it!
Now that I officially have fans, I’ve got to buck up. I can’t let them down with a sub-par performance. The PhD student must devote at least a full chapter of her dissertation to the history of Sojourner ‘You Can’t Handle the’ Truth.
I’ve gotta find a way to fit chunky sweaters into my carry-on suitcase! I’ve gotta hope that Delta Airlines doesn’t do me dirty again, and hasn’t taken a page from the American Airlines handbook of fuckery.
I’ve gotta hope that I can get my hair did bright and early tomorrow and make it to JFK by 1pm.
I’m taking a lot of risks, and to top it off, I’ve been writing like a demon for the 25th anniversary issue of my magazine, which ships next week. Sure, I could have not decided to do a show across the country a week before my press date. But then I would have cut a bitch. I can’t let these artists stop me from having dreams, y'all—especially not my California Dreams.
*****[This post was supposed to publish on Friday, but apparently I clicked 'Draft' and not 'Publish'--whoops! I guess I've been getting too wrapped up in Shark Week.]*****
Happy Friday, friends! Over the last couple days a lot has gone on in the world of the young, gifted, and black woman—and like I always say, Ain't I a Woman?
Let’s start with the good news.
Two female African American police officers have made history by becoming the first top cops to command a city precinct.
Deputy Inspector Juanita Holmes and Capt. Vanessa Kight are now the top cops at Brooklyn’s 81st Precinct in Bedford-Stuyvestant.
YAY!!! Talk about some strong black women! DI Holmes has already been with the precinct 27 years. Apparently, she's not getting too old for this shit!
Kymberly Wimberly, 18, got only a single B in her 4 years at McGehee Secondary School, and loaded up on Honors and Advanced Placement classes. She had the highest GPA in her class, but was forced to share the honor of valedictorian with a white student with a lower GPA. She and her lawyer argue that the school's refusal to let her be sole valedictorian was part of a pattern of discrimination against black students.
Wimberly's mother, the school's "certified media specialist," says in the federal discrimination complaint that after her daughter had been told she would be valedictorian, she heard "in the copy room that same day, other school personnel express concern that Wimberly's status as valedictorian might cause a 'big mess.'"
There are a number of things wrong with this picture, but only one that makes people giggle over and over again: the girl’s name.
Because yes, you read it right—her name is KYMBERLY WIMBERLY. (#WhyBlackPeopleCan'tHaveNiceThings)
Before you start calling me a discredit to the race, let me be clear: the real tragedy is the blatant racism and discrimination that is preventing a young, gifted, and black woman from receiving hard-earned honors. She's also a teen mom, which shows that she's driven, dedicated, and won't let a baby hold her back. She's a role model!!!! Denying Kym Wim of the chance to stand before her school after years of hard work and share her experience, strength, and hope tells black children everywhere that there's no point in trying. (#NoWeCan't)
But why on earth did her mom name her Kymberly Wimberly? How much did THAT have to do with people's ability to accept her as sole valedictorian? You're already on thin ice by making a life in the home of the Little Rock Nine--why not at least give your daughter a fighting chance with a non-rhyming name? Mama Wimberly wasn't even allowed to bring her grievance to the PTA meeting, which you know ain't right. But if you came into my PTA meeting and I knew you'd named your child Kymberly Wimberly, I probably wouldn’t let you speak, either. Your judgment would be questioned at every turn. And now the case is all over the internets, and the most common comments are:
Her mother should be sued for naming her daughter Kymberly Wimberly.
Kymberly Wimberly, what a great name! Hope she runs for president one day.
That's screwed up and all, but what kind of name is Kymberly Wimberly? Reply: I think maybe that is why it would cause a "big mess". Everyone would think it's a joke.
Po' Kym Wim! She overcame Arkansas, teen motherhood, and poor parental judgment and still can't catch a break. (#WeShallOverCome,JustNotToday)
In other news......
I just got the most random FB msg ever. If this isn’t love in the digital age, I don’t know what is: hi pretty baby how was your i hope every thing is fine,i am passing by i saw your pics and how beautiful it is,and i want to appreciate your beauty. my name is Thomas brown i am honest,kindly and lovely man ,baby i am single in my palace,baby u are the true vine,and Ur love is the vine dresser ,u are the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys, to chat with me thomasbrown2014luv@yahoo.com, i will be waiting for reply bye
This guy clearly wants to give me the herp and steal my identity. What is a "true vine" and a "vine dresser"?
I've been hemming and hawing about what to blog about this week, fearful that I'd end up sued for libel and/or dumped on the streets of Harlem. I realize that the only fair game is celebrities and myself, as well as anyone who won't assume the worst of me. With that, I must share this juicy bit of info I got from a comedy-club booker just moments ago.
Neil Patrick Harris—or, as I like to call him, Heterosexuality's Greatest Loss—lives in Harlem.
Yes, y'all! NPH/HGL was one of our earliest gentrifiers. I knew we had a connection that extended beyond my brain’s fantasyworld. (Note to self: I'll have to write him a letter and thank him for bringing black folks brunch.)
How did I get this info, you ask? Well, the booker called me about a showcase his club is doing for an NBC casting person. We got to chatting a bit and discovered we lived in the same neighborhood. My response: “Oh, you’re one of the ones who jacked up our prices!” Booker: Yup. I’ve been here about 10 years. Doogie Howser is here, too. Me: Wait, what? SHUT UP. NPH lives in your building? Booker: Huh? Me: Neil. Patrick. Harris. Booker: Yeah. Me: You are my new best friend. I hope you don’t mind if I stalk you now.
He then goes on to tell me that, although NPH/HGL has a hip pad downtown, he uses his Harlem apartment “as a homebase.” When he was hosting the Tony Awards this year, he had the extended fam staying there, away from the limelight and the paps!
Apparently, he’s lived uptown since his post-Doogie days. Guys, what if NPH was right behind me in line at the Uptown Juice Bar? What if he also bought quarter waters at the bodega?* What if he, too, used to enjoyed a good Jamaican beef patty after a long day? And, most important—has he been to the iHop that opened on 135th street?????
I’ve always felt a kinship with him—like Dr. Howser, I enjoy unwinding at the end of a long day with a good ol’ recap on my computer. Like Barney Stinson, I have a slutty history and daddy issues. And, as a host, NPH and I will go to any length’s to wow the crowd—including rapping.
He did this with zero preparation. It was written on the spot after all the winners were announced. The man is a true professional.
I’m sure I’ve already blogged about my goal to become NPH’s au pair, so I won’t bother outlining that fantasy again. But guys, the fact that NPH is regularly within a mile of me brings me one step closer to achieving my dream! Can you imagine me with the twins?!
Photo courtesy JJSiii
I don’t know how I’ll make this happen. I’m thinking my best bet is through his partner, as he can likely travel incognito and just walks around the neighborhood. I am willing to take my time to befriend him, as it will allow me to know NPH through his lifemate. When we finally meet—hopefully at a bourgie Harlem restaurant offering “Haute Soul Cuisine” or some crap—it will be like we’ve know each other all our lives. The babies will reach for me as if they already know I’m the Corinna Corinna to their Molly Singer.
The whole fam will come to my stand-up shows, and I’ll have to make sure my friends don’t embarrass me in front of NPH, but he’ll be so cool and down to earth, it won’t even be a big deal. We’ll regularly “do brunch” and they’ll call me when the twins are finicky and they don’t know what to do. I bet they’ll even start celebrating Kwanzaa!!!
A gal can dream, right?
Oh, and by the way—I got a slot on the showcase. Hopefully you’ll get to see Blacktress on 30 Rock -- It's about time Tracy Morgan got some competition.
*If you understand this reference, I heart you. Please come to my aid the next time my negrosity is questioned.
I swear, I'm not trying to be the blacktress who cried wolf. All weekend, I've just been struggling. I just can't fight the urge to blog. I think I finally get Jack Twist's struggle, as I, too, wish I knew how to quit you! And by 'you,' I mean 'internet-fueled narcissism.'
I just can't not tell my truths. I feel like the little boy at the end of Shane.
Only, instead of screaming "Shane, come back!" I'm yelling, "Blog!!!!!"
After an empowering talk with my therapist, I realized that silencing my voice isn't the answer. Although there was a fallout from the last post (and, surprisingly enough, it had nothing to do with my mom's words), most of the folks who can handle my truth got where I was coming from. I can't let misinterpretations freak me out. BUT....
I can't just call myself "You Can't Handle the Truth" and then get all butt-hurt when people can't, in fact, handle the truth. I've gotta own it. So, with that, I will keep my emotions reigned in and try not to bring up anything hurtful to people I care about. I was advised to start a separate, password-protected blog where I can pour out my feelings, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to do--I'm not some 14-year-old in 1995 with a LiveJournal. There will be no emo poetry here. There will, on occassion, be a touch of emotion, but my tone will be much clearer in the future-- let's see if it's not too boring.
Don't give up on me, gentle readers! I promise I'll keep bringing the fun and fresh, and I urge all those with an issue to leave a comment so that I can clarify things before relationships get ruined! It's the only way to keep love alive!
Okay, back to pretending to work. I'll have a real post soon--after all, Amy Winehouse would have wanted it that way.
This latest incident with the blog has prompted me to get out of the blogsphere. It seems that people in my daily life can't handle my truths, and minutes of happy typing are becoming the impetus for lectures, diatribes, and relationship collapses. This blog has been so much fun to write, and brought wonderful things into my life--like Eli Reed, who I wouldn't have ever met in Australia if she hadn't found this blog before I even moved over there--but the fallout on the northern hemisphere is just rough.
Hopefully this is a phase, but until I can figure out how to write what makes this readable/enjoyable in the first place without causing strife with friends, possibly losing my job, and ending my relationships, I gotta take a break.
Hey y'all! How was your weekend? Hanging with my Jewish fam this weekend was fun and far too short. I love acting like a tourist in the suburbs, and the fam is happy to oblige. Not only did we get dessert at Dairy Queen and Sonic, we also saw some Amish riding down the street in a horse and buggy. I have gotten my suburban fix for the remainder of the year.
[A PORTION OF THIS POST HAS BEEN REMOVED DUE TO READERS NOT KNOWING HOW TO BE COOL. ONE PERSON COULDN'T BEHAVE, AND NOW THERE'S NO EMOTIONAL CONNECTION FOR ANYONE.]
I fucking hate facebook. As you know, it all went horribly wrong with the Aussie, with my visit to his homeland resulting in a complete severance of contact (funny, that). I still think of him with a twinge, but it happens once every three months, and is only in a, “I hate that he thinks I’m the crazy one!” kind of way, not a swoony way. I haven’t spoken to him since we had a White president. Turns out two NYC pals I haven’t seen in ages just had their babies and I sent along my congratulations via wall post (as you do in this internet age). For this act of pseudo-human-interaction, I received the following:
Subject: Hello
Hey [BLACKTRESS], How are you? Saw you on [new parents’] photo post. Hope you're doing great. [D-bag]
WHY?????? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING? Hey, Folger’s, I got a new jingle for you: “The worst part of wakin’ up / Is an asshole who won’t shut up!”
I think what's most insane about it is the attempt at a casual hello--as if seeing me on a "photo post" was the same as seeing me at a party or something. And he hopes I'm doing "Great." What if I wrote back and said, "I'm doing good, not great--gotta drain my labia three times a day." Hmmm.....perhaps that would prevent him from contacting me forever.....
Of course, I couldn't deal with this alone at my desk. I promptly alerted KWalsh to the situation.
me: THE AUSTRALIAN FRIENDED ME ON FACEBOOK KWalsh: ewwwwwwwwwww me: DUDE, I CAN'T FUCKING COPE WITH THIS WORLD ok, i'm done with the caps KWalsh: haha me: and his profile pic is a glamour shot like, out of control what do you think his mental illness is? KWalsh:hahahaha being australian? KWalsh:i think men have amnesia about the shit they do like, 2 years passes and suddenly they're like "oh yeah, her! cool!" like don't remember any of the strife oorrrrrrr they didnt think it was crazy dramatic in the first place normal me: we were never friends! He is a crazy biatch KWalsh: i know but i think he thinks you were friends in his retroactive narrative me: but that's so strange we met at a bar, had a torrid affair, then he went back to Australia he sent me his penis over the internet and tried to have phone sex with a 16-hour time difference while he was in a relationship when became single again, he came back to nyc 8 months we had another torrid three-day affair and then when i said i didn't want to be his friend in australia, he said i was "fucking crazy" KWalsh:i know these are all FACTS but i think he is just conveniently remembering that you're his mate in the US me: that doesn't compute in my brainhole
And it still doesn’t, guys. I mean, all for living and letting live, but there's a huge difference between that and "sure, show up in my minifeed and keep tabs on my performance schedule as though we have a mutual respect that makes that unobtrusive." See how many more words that is--clearly, it's very different.
In other news: I was asked to do a voiceover on the plantation last week for a craft event. Because our setup is so broke and busted, me and the video guy had to record it locked in the bathroom. Of course, you know my work ethic--I'm in it for the bennies and the blog fodder. With that in mind, I have provided a few choice outtakes from the recording session:
