You Don't Own Me!

I think facebook is trying to bring slavery back, much in the way that JT tried to bring back sexy.

I, as a blacktress, am offended by this.

Today I went in to the good ol' f-book to see who wanted to be friends, who had a new special friend, and who was kicking my butt in Scrabulous. I haven't really been into facebook since they decided to add more applications than an Ivy League school, but I go along for the ride because seeing the number of internet friends I have gives me a boost on really rough days. Usually I ignore the applications people ask me to add, knowing that this will do nothing but clutter up my page full of hilarious, wry quotes, and clever inside jokes that friends write on my wall--you know, just to see if you remember that time that really funny thing happened a couple years ago.
Today a particular application caught my eye. Invited by a dude from Denmark who I met at a hostel in New Orleans 3 years ago (I kid you not, you know how random f-book gets), it read:

M- L sent a request using Owned!:

Hey , I just bought you. Find out how much I think you're worth!

Block This Application | Ignore All Invites From This Friend

Um, excuse me. Did he just say he bought a blacktress? In the words of Whitney--hell to the no!!!

Is facebook trying to put me back on the auction block? I think it's quite humorous that only two people have asked me to add this application, and they are both men who are whiter than a monster truck rally held in a ski resort.* One of them was a dude I made out with who then had no love for a blacktress--he most certainly doesn't get to buy me when he already got some chocolate milk for free!!!

I'm sorry, but this application is just too much. When it was pink ribbons and vampires, I was okay with it. I even went along with a good game of Oregon Trail (always caulk the wagon) and some Scrabulous (even though it takes 12 weeks to finish a game). Then bitches started asking me to take a quiz to determine "what kind of American accent I have." I thought facebook was being run by a monkey with Down's Syndrome.

Now I'm starting to believe it's being run by my former Massa John Nealy (who was straight trippin' on me cause I spoke Dutch and not English--um, just be glad someone let me learn one language!). I haven't even clicked the link that that says "what's my price?" cause I'm sure it'll put me on some sneaky government list of people to re-slave. Besides, if I'm worth less than Beyonce, I'll just be really pissed.



*could that even happen? I don't know, but it sounds like two things that are stereotypically Caucasian. Maybe I should ask that guy who does Stuff White People Like before I go throwing these terms around. Next thing you know, Aliza Shvarts will come after me with some blood in a cup, saying it's her unborn biracial baby.

Future Baby Daddy on 7th Street

OMG guys!!!!!!

I was totes walking down 7th street, in the east village, enjoying my lunch hour and the warm sun as memories of the motherland caressed my mind, and I saw two women in my path. They were standing next to a thrift store called “Fabulous Fanny’s,” and were looking down at the ground. With my headphones on and the tint of my sun-specs, I wasn’t paying much attention—I figured they were looking at a dog or something (as many people do in the east village).

Suddenly, however busybody in me followed their gaze and I saw they were talking to a man.
A HOT MAN.

A man who turned out to be none other than CLIVE OWEN—the hot actor I’d love to get Closer to (you know I love a British man)! He was ruggedly handsome and looked camera-ready in a white button-down and jeans. I don’t know if he knew the old broads, but he talked to them casually. Does he live in the neighborhood? I wondered, as I made a note of the location for future star-gazing. He noticed me looking, I guess, and our eyes met through our sunglasses. I quickly walked on, not wanting to bother him (stars—they’re just like US!) or be “that girl,” but I think we had a moment.

I think he wants me.

Clive, you can have me any which way but loose!

A Real Blacktress Gives Back

You'll never guess what I did yesterday, y'all.
I helped an old lady cross the street!!!

For real.

I fleed the plantation yesterday, and enjoyed the sunshine as I fortified my weary bones. Part of this involved getting my hair did in the Bronx-- you know, where the Dominican ladies will work it out. A blacktress can come in looking like Macy Gray and walk out looking like Pocahontas**!!!!!

Anyway, after applying burning chemicals to my scalp to deny my nubian nappiness, I left 2 hours later feeling hungry, kinda sweaty, but surprisingly grown and sexy. I put on my sunglasses as I stepped out into the sun's glare, which only increased the sexy feeling (and allow me to eye-fuck hotties without consent--holla!).

As I waited for the light to change across the Grand Concourse, I heard a voice behind me call out. A true New Yorker, I ignored the initial call, certain that I didn't know you, so I wasn't even going to invite a random conversationalist--or a dude hell-bent on calling me "shorty" or "ma" (paging Dr. Freud!). The voice repeated, this time softer, gentler, with a hint of an island accent. I turned around to see a small old woman resting on her cane. She held out her hand to me and the another young woman who was approaching the corner. "Can you please help me cross the street?" the old woman asked us. I hurried over, and grabbed her hand.

The Grand Concourse is a rough strip, and there are often accidents as people try to cross the quadruple-lane pavement. She was already about 4'11", and was wearing a parka on a 60-degree day, so I knew it was behoovy of me to come to the rescue.

It took us about 10 minutes to cross the street.

The whole time, she kept saying, "Thank you for being patient with me, the Lord will bless you," her sweet West Indian accent pouring into my ears sweeter than syrup.

I assured her I was in no rush, which I wasn't. Not only was I now feeling grown and sexy, I felt useful.

And she was totally right about being blessed. I knew she'd totes given me a "get out of jail free"--or, rather, "get into heaven VIP"--card.

Dude, I helped an old lady cross the street!! That doesn't even happen! Do you know what that means? I can steal candy from a baby, double park my imaginary moped, and kill a man just to watch him die--and totally break even!!! How awesome is that?

God, it feels good to help people.




**(have you ever heard the wolf cry????)

A Letter from a Reader

Hi,
I live in India, and Im an artist, painting mostly in oils.
Most of my life I had this desire to come to the US and paint its lovely hills and deserts .
Unfortunately that has been fantasy so long.
But , just last week, I visited a shopping mall, and there in a bookshop I laid my hands on the very first ___________ magazine!
I have been seeing your mag online for so long, and have heard of your mag for decades , and it was a thrilling experience to lay my hands on your mag.

In life there are so many of these yet-to-be-experienced moments that you can't describe the joy and thrill when you come to these moments.
I thank you for your lovely mag! Im considering subscribing to it, as I have just applied for my first credit card.
Thank you , and please keep up your quality.


I must admit that this letter is only funny if you replace the 'm' in "mag" with a v.
Go ahead. Do it.
Now laugh.

The Hotness: A Review

Last night I had the pleasure of being the plus-one of none other than JJSiii at the screening of the upcoming film The Wackness. We didn’t really know what we were in for, and I attended for three reasons: it was free; Mary Kate Olsen was in it; as was Method Man.

I figured disappointment was highly unlikely—and I wasn’t wrong.

The Wackness centers on Luke Schapiro, a young Jewish prep-school gangster lazing about the city over the summer before he’s set to go to college. To pass the time, he sells weed out of an ice truck, and hangs out with Ben Kingsley (yeah, that Ben Kingsley—Ghandi, Sexy Beast, etc.), who plays a therapist who's a hot mess himself.

How hot of a mess? Well, he buys weed from Luke and makes out with M-K O.

Don’t worry, that’s not even the best of it.

The film’s true hotness comes in the form of witty one-liners and the great soundtrack, which harkens back to our youth (I mean, what’s better than watching a teen boy swipe his v-card to R. Kelly’s “Bump ‘n’ Grind”?!). Set in the summer of 1994, the film is a period piece of the finest degree, showing us the early years, when having the channel 1 was a big deal, when Notorious BIG was just coming up (and, you know, not dead), and Giuliani was getting rid of whorehouses and cracking down on crime.

Unless you were a white boy from the Upper East Side selling weed.

Before the screening of the film we were given a detailed information packet, which included a “glossary of slang terms” that appeared in the film. Some words included:

Breasteses: the plural of breasts.
Bounce: to leave a place. Eg. This party is wack, let’s bounce.
Weed: marijuana.

I kid you not.

I didn’t think these words were so foreign, especially when coming out of the mouth of an actor who played basically every guy I went to high school with. Apparently, I’m a bit more urban than their target audience.

But I’m certainly not more urban than Luke Schapiro, who takes his love of 90s hip hop to the nth power, making mix tapes for the therapist and his stepdaughter, Stephanie (played by Olivia Thirlby, the bff in Juno), who he is has a fat crush on.
No, “fat crush” would be an understatement. I believe his exact words are:
I got mad love for you, shorty. You make me, like, want to listen to Boyz II Men.
Best. Line. Ever.
I think I now know what I want my future husband to say to me on our wedding night.

The film works best as a story of child-men, with Ben Kingsley smoking weed, suggesting that the cure for Luke’s malaise is just getting laid (or, as he puts it, “the pussyquest”), and getting them locked up in the clink for a hot minute (where he asks a scrawny old black man what he’s in for and the man answers matter-of-factly: “I stabbed my wife in the pussy.” I know why this film won so much buzz at Sundance). Ben Kingsley is the hotness in this film, and the relationship between him and Luke is unexpected and only something an indie film would create, but it’s actually believable and enjoyable to watch. As JJSiii put it, “it didn’t give me an indie boner or anything, but I liked it.”

Truth.

Luke is a sad case, and is well-played by some dude who is usually on Nickelodeon (Josh Peck--have you heard of him? Fresh face to watch). He has no friends and just wants to love Stephanie, who cannot handle his tenderness. Stephanie’s rejection of Luke’s affection was particularly eye-opening for a blacktress. He was ready to start of college in a long-distance relationship, give her the love he had no one else to give it to, and she played him like a game of Chinese checkers!!! It’s girls like Stephanie that made it impossible for me to find a man willing to commit at any point from 2003-present. Awkward, tender guys gave their heart away to skinny boring girls who just got bored, and then they vowed never to love again.

I bet in the sequel to The Wackness we see Luke in college, sleeping with any and everything with a vajayjay, as one lonely girl just tries to make him an honest man, but he won’t let her cause he’s “going through a lot right now” which is code for “I don’t like you, and I am incapable of love because I’m so self-involved.”

Sorry, I digress.

Other highlights from the film include:
- Method Man as Percy, Luke’s weed supplier, who for some reason has a Jamaican accent.
- Ben Kingsley's final words to Luke at the end of the film: "Good luck in school. Try and sleep with a black girl--I never got to do that in college." How many times did I say at Diversity U, "black is like bi--you try it once in college"?!
Many times.
And Ben Kingsley simply confirms it.
- The line that gives the film its title:
While on the beach on Fire Island, Luke is confused and scared, wondering if Stephanie really like-likes him. She tells him to relax, and not think about the end of the summer, saying, “see, that’s your problem Schapiro, the way you look at things. Me, I just see the dopeness. But you, you just see the wackness.”
I will now be referring to all negative things as “the wackness” and all cool things as “the dopeness.”
Except for this film. It is most definitely THE HOTNESS.

Dream Lover

As many of you may already know, I’m kinda into Harry Potter. I love his magic wand, I want his snake to Slyther-in, you know—the usual. While this is always good for a laugh among friends, I’m starting to wonder if this obsession is getting to be a little unhealthy. I woke up in the middle of the night after a terrible nightmare. I struggled to go back to sleep, but was unable to. This morning, I talked to my fellow scorned woman about what happened, unable to go on with my day until this wicked dream was out in the open.

Thank god for gchat, or else I would have had to wait until a reasonable hour to discuss this via telephone.

me: oh my god, i had such bad nightmares last night
seriously, i had to wake up and put on ‘flight of the conchords’ on dvd just to calm down

K: oh my god

me: but the dream was this:
luna lovegood was possessed by lord voldemort and there was nothing i could do
so i texted harry, ron, and hermione
because i can't even speak parseltongue
(katie, i'm dead serious)

K: shut up-- you had a nightmare about harry potter

me: and luna was all pasty and speaking in scary demonic languages, kinda like linda blair in THE EXORCIST
and i was carrying her downstairs to the living room, terrified.
and then harry texted me back

Kathleen: texting with harry potter
egads

me: and harry was like, "reply to her in the voice she uses and tell her to stop"
and then i did i said "impendimentum"
what does that mean?!
and luna acted like she was okay
but then she wasn't

K: wow this is very detailed

me: and she used dark magic to knock me and my mom down
it really was quite detailed and intense.
i woke up in a cold sweat
maybe i had a vision
maybe i'm connected to the dark lord
maybe....
this should be a blog post?

Mondays With Artists

You know, just when I think I’m ready to pack it up and quit this plantation, something comes in the mail or a voice squawks in my ear, and I remember to find the laughter. Today is no exception.

I was sorting the mail for the massas when a letter addressed to no one in particular hit the pile. I open any piece of mail with no direct recipient, and usually toss it in the garbage because it often involves an organization asking for money or someone with questionable talent looking for exposure. Today’s letter featured a 1-page single-spaced letter, and four photographs of the artist’s work attached. I have retyped the greatest moments from the letter below, leaving in all typos and other errors so you can really feel what I felt while holding this cold piece of parchment in my hands. You must forgive my inability to scan the accompanying images—something about “being illegal” and “dangerous” came up, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, here it is:

Dear Magazine Editor,
It feels strange approaching you. Then again We Artist’s have to promote ourselves sometimes….
[Note the typos. I’m uncomfortable. I think part of promoting oneself should require the use of proper grammar and spelling.]

I was tired of painting my usual flowers and landscapes. “Done to Death.”

[Um, why is that in quotes? I know he’s not really dead, or else he couldn’t write to me.
Or could he??????]

I wanted to do something different, stimulating, and enjoyable with a “Fresh subject matter.” Pondering, what could be interesting that would get people into the gallery to at least look? I came up with the idea of “Cats.” A lot of people like cats. That’s it! “Cat’s doing outrageous human things.”

I kid you not.
This is my job.
Read on.

Why cats? Cats have a mischievous behavior anyway, and do what, when, and where they want on there own terms. If cats could, they would be doing human things…
I must admit, I was giggling to myself as these ideas flourished. … As I was painting, other ideas came to mind that would make the painting funnier, so I would change them as I went along. I was very excited to get out to the studio every day and work on these paintings. They were “FUN” and made me laugh out loud!! I figured that If they made me laugh (in my warped sense of humor) they would make others laugh, too. (Maybe I am related to Gary Larson- Far Side Cartoons)”

I think Gary Larson would probably take away his acrylic if he saw this.
The six paintings he provided pictures of include:
-A cat doing a handstand on a surfboard.
-A cat lounging in a bed of various balls of yarn.
-A cat dressed as a grocer, selling things that only cats like: smoked sardines, yarn balls, goldfish.
-And my favorite: A dog dressed as a doctor, performing an ultrasound on a cat's belly. The wall of the doctor's office features the sign "Canine University: Feline Obstetrics." The caption under the painting reads, "you're going to have siamese twins!!"


This man and the sock monkey guy should get together and put their animals in crazy situations.

Does anyone mind putting my resume on monster.com?

NEVER FORGET!!!!

In addition to being a writer, comedian, and blacktress, I am also a grader for an undergraduate film course at my alma mater (yeah, I got my learn on when I was allowed to). I receive papers written by students of all grade levels taking an introductory course in cinema, and I wield my red pen like a sword, cutting into their hopes and dreams—and dropping a little knowledge. What I love about this job is threefold:

1. I get a little extra income coming in (I’m just a freed squirrel trying to get a nut, y’all!)
2. I get to reaffirm my own genius by judging others.
3. I get to guide young Caucasian minds, teaching them how to write thoughtful analysis and become freedom writers.
(sometimes I’m tempted to ask about their great-grandfathers’ slave-owning past, but I remember that that’s inappropriate in academia)

But sometimes when I’m reading these papers, the young people of Diversity University teach me a thing or two … and then I know why Michelle Pfeiffer, Hilary Swank, and Dainty Deb find great joy in teaching. (Granted, it’s better when the kids are impoverished and brown--cause then you can really hold your head up high at dinner parties and art openings--but well-tended liberals are better than nothing.)

Take, for instance, the current topic of the papers I am grading. They are for a film course that combines philosophy and psychology (only at Diversity U!), and has students quoting Freud, Nietzsche, and other scholars as they discuss memory and identity in melodrama. Reading 4 pages that manage to analyze the acting chops of Bette Davis and Freud’s definition of melancholy is nothing short of brilliant. However, when I saw that one of the paper topics asked students to comment on the differences between males and females, my eyes perked up with excitement. Here’s the intro to one paper:

"It is not uncommon for men to be baffled by the amount that women seem to ‘obsess’ over details and events, analyzing every word of a conversation that was had a week ago. Beyond this everyday difference and constant source of fighting between the sexes, there is the fact that women are forced to remember, while men are allowed to forget. This is due to cultural expectations and physical realities that have always existed and will always exist, and can be seen clearly in __________ and __________."

Does this student read my blog? How do they have such a firm grasp on female “obsession” and analysis of conversations that were “had a week ago”? The idea of women being forced to remember and men being allowed to forget is the crux of the essay, for in melodramatic films, male characters get to be playboys—or suffer from amnesia—while women always have to remember the magical night, the failed romance, or….THE KID THAT THEY GAVE BIRTH TO.

Reading these essays, I wondered if this was the key to the differences between the sexes: why do I freak out over a random dude not calling me after a few dates? Why do I replay our conversations in my head on loop, wondering what I said that was “too much,” while he skips happily along, going on auditions and playing magic cards—wait, I mean, doing whatever else he does ‘cause I’m not still into Magic-card Guy anyway.

I digress.

Is the reason for my obsession biological? Is it because any physical union with a man could result in our love-, dislike-, or drunken-boredom-child? My DNA says that it’s in my best interest to remember a potential baby daddy, if not for the future health of my offspring, but for the sheer need to avoid appearing on Jerry Springer or Maury Povich.

The student then went on to explain how easy it is for men to forget, and how the display of emotion common in females is not seen as a male virtue:

"though there are some cultures that are more accepting of male emotion than American culture, it is a present factor in every culture to some extent, tracing back to the fact that the male cavemen hunted for food while the women picked berries and tended to the cave and children."

(I kid you not. This is a real excerpt from a college student’s paper. A student whose parents and/or the government pay $40,000 per year for him/her to learn and write such papers.)

That is so true!!! I mean, have you seen the Geico commercials? Those cave dudes are always hunting for food and fun. Where are cavewomen on our television screens? They are off picking berries and tending to the cave and cavechildren!!!! From the beginning of time, women have had to remember everything that goes down cause men have been too busy hunting and flirting with cave-tramps. And now, in the 21st century, instead of hunting (which may be an actually legitimate excuse, since it was key to survival), all a dude has to say is that “shit’s been crazy” with them, leaving it up to you to remember when their mother’s birthday is, or when they get out of class so you can casually bump into them, or when you took your birth control pill so that you don’t end up at PPNYC.

Men are allowed to forget, and women are forced to remember.

In case you were wondering, I gave the above student an A+++ and told them to call me.

Cracking the Code of Conduct

No, I didn't just use that title for the clever alliteration.

Today I received an intra-office email.
Do you know what that word means? It's when you get an email to your office email address from a party within your office.

I'm so glad I went to college and got a bachelor's degree. I would have never been able to use such a word.

Anyway, I digress. I opened my inbox yesterday to discover that I was wanted--for participation in an online course about our company's code of conduct. Apparently, someone had gotten wind of my lewd comments and penchant for sharing company secrets.

I jest.

I don't even know what my company does.

All employees were required to take the online training course, which was scheduled to take approximately 40 minutes.
W. T. F?!

Why in the world should it take 40 minutes for me to take a computer course to learn not to hire family members and/or grab the mail guy's ass? Mama didn't raise no fool!

After my anger subsided, I decided to alter my perspective--look on the bright side, as the therapist says. This was not simply THE MAN, forcing his will upon me. This was 40 minutes of company-sanctioned procrastination!

I clicked the link wholeheartedly, and prepared to tuck in for a hearty helping of repetitive information fitting a mentally disabled foreign child.

I was not disappointed.

I had to read through 5 scenarios, and then take a quiz at the end. I thought I'd beat the system by clicking straight through to the NEXT button at the end of each scenarios, but the company was ready for my laziness and disrespect. A giant pop-up window came up when I clicked the button prematurely.

The computer, it's thinking.

This is how the movie "I, ROBOT" started--only I'm no Will Smith.

I put on my headphones and began to read the scenarios.

What I immediately discovered shocked me unlike any realization I'd ever had: I think our Code of Conduct "training course" was written by Carrot Top.

Here's an excerpt from a scenario titled "Pam Gets an Eyeful"-- needless to say, it has to do with lewdness:

GlobeCo's Business Development Department had a different culture than the rest of the company. Many people who worked there enjoyed telling dirty jokes, and one employee, Ken, often downloaded new screensavers from lingerie catalogs.

[Um, what? What kind of "culture" does the Development Department have that would lead someone to tell a dirty joke and/or download a screensaver from a lingerie catalog? I didn't know Business Development was such a raunchy area of major corporations--what was I think entering a creative field?

Oh, and PS-- when did lingerie catalogs start making screensavers?]

Ken is about to show the newest pictures to his coworker, Tim, and they're about to be interrupted by another employee, Pam, who doesn't find the pictures funny.

Ken: Hey, Tim, check out this new screensaver! These things get better every week.

[Do they really get better, Ken? Do they? Who is this guy? He sounds lame. This is the second hole in this "story" for me. There's no way this guy--who is clearly socially awkward and flirts inappropriately with the interns--would still be employed at GlobeCo, or even have an office friend who'd want to "check out his new screensaver."]

Tim: What's the theme this time?

Ken: I think it's Nations of the World. See the little flag?

[Who added this touch of color? I think this is my favorite line]

Tim: Oh yeah, I see it now. And on the other girl, too. You know, that is probably the tiniest flag I've ever seen! (they both laugh)

Pam: Hey Ken, hey Tim. So I've been going over the—Oh, no. Those screensavers again?

[I don't have a picture of Pam, but I don't think she's cool like Pam from "The Office." I imagine her to be bloated and whiny, and probably eats Lean Cuisines while looking longingly at Tim's sandwiches from SUBWAY. ]

Ken: No, Pam, it's not what you think! Tim and I are studying...uh...engineering! You know, things like wind resistance.

[Now, if Ken really is this pervy, wouldn't you think he would have a better cover line than that? I mean, this can't be the first time he's been caught with his pants down and his fingers on a mouse]

Tim: Yeah, and maximum fabric load. See, this fabric right here has just about hit its breaking point. (laughs)

Ken: Luckily yours is well within its safety margin, Pam, if you know what I mean... (laughs)
[By that, he means that she is wearing more clothes than the lingerie model. Get it?]

Pam: Look, I've told you guys before to knock it off. These screensavers are really offensive. And I'm tired of overhearing your dirty jokes.

Ken: Oh, you're just jealous.

[Yes, yes she is.]

Ken and Tim's comments to Pam are offensive and violate GlobeCo's Code of Conduct, as do the screensavers they're displaying. Unfortunately, it sounds like this kind of behavior has been going on for a while, despite Kim's complaints. Kim should discuss the situation with her manager or HR immediately.

AND SCENE.

Why did they assume this would take me 40 minutes?
And why did they make me take a quiz afterwards?

What I learned from this Code of Conduct training is threefold:

1. The Business Development Department at the imaginary GlobeCo is really effed up.
2. Pornographic screensavers are not okay.
3. Working in a cubicle the size of a veal pen makes you do dirty things on company time.

My 12-year-old Boyfriend

I have gotten many responses about a certain scorned ecard, which features a young Magic-card playing tyke. With his blinged-out orthodontia and the Band-aid on his elbow, perhaps he seems a little young to scorn a blacktress. One reader commented: "I bet your fights are adorable!" To which I say: Yes, they are!!!

I then went on to have a 20-minute gchat conversation about what I imagine a relationship to be like with my imaginary 12-year-old boyfriend. I have pasted it below for your reading/procrastination pleasure:

me: our fights ARE adorable--but he always hangs up to "go to bed"
K: haha!

me: and/or "watch pokemon"
K: haha!
me: and i'm like, "don't you walk away from me, jimmy!"

me: and he's all like, "i dn't want to kiss you, i just got my braces tightened"and i'm all like, "you used that excuse last month"
me: and he's like, "Well, i took my rubber bands out, so you should be happy"
K: at least he's done with headgear
me: then i'm like, "well, you can't touch my vag cause i have my period"and he's all like, "what's a period?"
me: and i'm like, "don't play dumb with me, jimmy!!!!"

K: then he cries and says that he's doesnt want to spend the night and his mom drives over in her robe to pick him up
me: HAHAHHAHAHAHA--PRExactly.
K: but then you make him pizza bites and he's ok
me: well, like, sometimes it's really hard when he takes his anger out on me. he comes home after a game of wiffle ball and he's all yelling at me, like i fucked it up and i'm like, "i have nothing to do with your little league"
he can be so moody sometimes
me: then, he wants to get all frisky, and i'm like, "jimmy, you haven't even discovered deodorant yet, could you please back up?!"

me: Um, should this conversation just be a blog post?

Look at that smile. How can I just walk away????

Things I Learned While Babysitting a Two-Year-Old in Queens Last Night:

Outer-boroughs have amenities. There's a post office, a movie theater, and tons of restaurants to choose from!

Jack Johnson, Nick Drake, and Ryan Adams make a great “sleepytime mix” on your iPod. However, Bjork can induce nightmares.

Dora the Explorer isn’t actually exploring anything. She was, like, looking for pigs in a barn. That's not ethnic at all!

It’s very important to know the address of the home in which you are babysitting. It is impossible to order food otherwise.

A sloth moves very very slowly. Say it with me. Slow-ly! Muy Bien!
(damn you, Diego—you make me learn whether I like it or not)

You can’t trick a kid into falling asleep. There is no such thing as the “game where we sit in the rocking chair and are really, really quiet.”

Y is for young Yolanda Yorgenson yelling on a yellow yak. Dr. Seuss, what can't you alliterate?!

Never separate a growing boy from his trucks. You will live to regret it.

Cartoons aren’t what they used to be.
Okay, I need to explain this one. Has anyone seen this show on Noggin called “Max and Ruby”? It’s about two rabbits who are brother and sister—Ruby, who is 7, and Max, who is 3. As in real life, the younger brother is always getting on Ruby’s nerves but in the end there’s a comical resolution. What struck me as odd about the show was the following:

Max and Ruby have no parents. You never see or hear any sort of grown up rabbit, telling them to behave.

As a result, Ruby ends up taking care of Max, doing everything from bathing him (4 times in one episode!) to tucking him in at night (see the “Max’s Bedtime” episode for more details). This makes Ruby sort of like a single mother. Is she a welfare rabbit?

Why do they give this little 7 year old so much responsibility? I mean, just watching it, I felt bad for her. Where were her friends? What about Ruby’s personal time? She couldn’t even practice “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” on the piano without Max interrupting.

Ruby's just trying to get her Mozart on when Max rolls up all needy-like.

Is this show supposed to be some sort of subliminal birth control, showing kids the dangers of taking on parenthood too young? It worked for me, and I’m a grown-ass woman!!

I also found the need to bathe Max 4 times a bit excessive and bordering on pornographic. Why does he have to be naked so much? How does that move the plot forward or flesh out the character? It was gratuitous animal nudity unlike any I've ever seen.

Nothing's Right, I'm SCORNED

Um, guys, I can't stop making e-cards. If you missed the first 4 in the series, scroll down to the post titled "OURecards.com."

My name is Sojourner, and I am a Photoshop addict.

Or, to quote the great poet Natalie Imbruglia,
nothing's right, i'm scorned...
i'm all out of faith
this is how i DEAL
i'm sitting here at work
and I'm blogging about pain....


Here are the latest e-cards:








Wait, is this one too personal????

OURecards.com

For those of you who follow the blacktress blog religiously, you already know from previous posts that I’m really into the website someecards.com. They have an ecard for almost every occasion, from April Fool’s Day to Black History Month, and for any situation. And I love their tag line: for when you care enough to hit send. SOO TRUE!

I’ve taken to sending them to friends for any and no reason, just to share the laughter and the joy. They’ve reciprocated, creating a lovely chain of goodness. But today, when discussing the e-card possibilities with Katie Walsh, we realized someecards.com was missing a very important category: “rejection.” While they have a category devoted to break ups, they’ve left out the all important moment when you really need to send an ecard. That is, after you’ve only gone on a few dates or had a one-night stand with someone who then acts like you don’t exist. How do you handle this rage? How can you get back at your oppressor electronically?

Well, Katie and I put our heads together and came up with our very own set of ecards: ScornedWomanEcards (we're hoping to get it as a .org, or maybe even .gov--perhaps sponsored by Michelle Obama???). Until we get our website up and running, you can save the images below and send them to the foes and hos that have done you wrong. I think the cards will say far more than your heart ever could.

Mondays With Artists

As you know, I work for a major publication. This comes with many risks, such as: people assuming you know about art, geriatrics seeking your support for their cockamamie schemes (hello, plasticize board, anyone?!), crazy artists thinking you have some sort of control over their failing careers and marriages.

Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.

Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):

Can you read that? It says "I draw sock monkeys"

What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?

Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.

I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.

Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.



This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.

Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????

I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:


Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.

My fear is mounting.

You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”

Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?

These artists are really starting to freak me out.

Celebrating a White Woman

Yes, I'm doing it.

29 years ago today, my office wife was squeezed out into this world. She grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey, where she cultivated a love of whole wheat and grains, physical activity, and positive thinking. She went on to work in advertising, and then magazine publishing.

And there she changed a blacktress' life.

As a woman of color and a writer, it is behoovy of me to express my appreciation in the written form, as I've done for so many others, from Harry Potter to Katie Walsh-- you know, the people who really matter. Below, I look back on the year that has been and celebrate the birth of Alli Mali.

From the very first day, you knew all the answers
Wielding your red pen like a sword, you showed me it's the deck that really matters.
From our first lunch time walk en plein air
I knew we'd be besties--especially when that bird pooped in your hair.
Halfway through the year we moved into veal pens
But, surprisingly, our tender office love did not end.
Now we lean back in our rolly chairs,
sharing our worries and cares
Then bitch and moan at Lemongrass on Fridays.
You have the youthful joy of someone a mere 18 years old,
yet you always know I have a date if I'm wearing my reflections in gold.
And when I'm a hot mess you don't judge me in any way.
I feel great joy when I hand you an article I think is DONE AND DONE.
Then I see your red marks and I know the learning has just begun.
You push me to be the best blacktress I can be--
But no matter what you say, I won't drink that damn algae.
You're so kind to everyone, the mail guys say you're hot.
Then there's that darn Sal, who's just waiting for you to give him a shot.
You're my nine-to-five soul sister, twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five
Except for those ten vacation days, and the fact that you're white.


Alli, remember that time you and I were working on an article (you know, every day) and you taught me new and exciting things? Well, I never told you, but you just treated me like such an equal, I actually felt white.

Goosebumps--Tales of TRUTH

me: i know you're busy, but i just found a NEW office gay

Kathleen: nice

me: i was in the kitchen, talking to katey about how i hate men

and i just looked over at this dude who was at the vending machine and was like, "WHY AM I SINGLE?"

and turns out he's gayer than a christmas goose!

he goes, "all my girl friends ask me that. you need to leave new york and find a man somewhere else, club him over the head, and drag him back here."

Kathleen: haha

nice

so true as well

how is a christmas goose gay??

me: katie

that's not the point.


What is the point is that this man--a total stranger just in need of a can of Schweppes--knew the problem. He went on to say, "The thing is, to make it in this city, you have to be sort of an egomaniac [TRUTH], and it's hard for an egomaniac to be in a relationship with another person. And then, being a strong woman, it's even harder."

I mean, does he get me or what?
God bless a gay Christmas goose.

This is what I would cook for my boyfriend every night, if he ever decided to love me. Notice the two glasses of red wine.

The Last Unicorn

Ladies, Gentlemen, Friends, Foes, and Hos:

Today is a sad day. Another one bites the dust.

It is currently day 5 of “OPERATION: Why won’t he call me? WHY?! WHY?!” and still no word. Not one to roll over and play dead (I did free myself from the shackles of slavery, didn’t I?) I even called the wandering minstrel last night, just to put out there—this body ain’t getting any younger, people!!!

As of now, I have received no return call.

This, coming from a man who said I was “Excrutiatingly attractive”—when ‘excrutiatingly’ isn’t even a word! I mean, when you’re altering the dictionary to find the right compliment, it has to be for real, right?

This, coming from a man who had a moment in the Nubian sunshine, and came all the way to Harlem to attend a gathering hosted by Sojo when he didn’t know a single soul in attendance.

This, from a fellow who cleaned the red wine I spilled all over the couch and still wanted to make out with me.

I am seriously lost and delirious.

Let me tell you some things I like about my crush:

He is a 6-foot 3-inch tall glass of milk—Sojourner's not getting osteoporosis on his watch!

He has curly hair—it's like white people's version of nappiness!

He plays magic cards—which clearly means he is smart, has an nerdy past, and won't be scared off by my Harry Potter fetish.

And, most importantly:

He was recently on The Tyra Banks Show.

Um, need a say more???

Ok, I will!!!!!!!!!

A tall hot nerd who doesn’t know he’s hot is an urban legend—like razor-blades in apples, and getting AIDS from a toilet seat—only he’s more fun than those. A hot nerd who wants a blacktress is simply magical—the male equivalent of a unicorn. Like an audience member at his Las Vegas run of Cirque du Soleil, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I dazzled him in my freakum dress and my gays said my “tats looked great.” Our interactions were effortless, and it felt like I’d known him way more than a hot minute. I thought I could finally stop kissing frogs and end up with a prince.

Apparently, that’s not in the (magic) cards for a blacktress.

My beeper has not beeped and my phone has not phoned, and I feel like an ugly normal person who no one wants to spend time with—not even Jesus (and he’s everyone’s homeboy).

Possible Reasons He No Longer Has Love for the Blacktress:
1. He’s gotten with that tramp Felicia from the Tyra Show.
2. Hotter women have come out of the woodwork ever since Tyra called him sexy.
3. He’s going on tour with a wandering minstrel show.
4. He’s been stop-lossed and is going back into the trenches, like Ryan Phillippe
5. He’s racist.
6. He’s lazy and crazy.
7. My vagina dentata scared him away (JK (rowling)!!! I don’t have TEETH)
8. Perhaps it’s because I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him til EL CINCO DE MAYO (Mexican Independence Day)?
9. Because I asked him to teach me to play magic cards because I wanted to “know his world.” (which I personally think is endearing as shit, and should have made him swoon with delight)

So, today, we self-soothe with episodes of "The Office" online. We shed a tear for the pretty, tall, mixie babies that would have been. We light a candle for the mocha acting troupe we would have undoubtedly started. We pour 1/5 of gin on the ground for our dead minstrel, and just praise White Jesus that he didn’t put his p in my v without a c.

The Emperor Club’s New Groove

Okay, so as you all know by now, former NY governor Eliot Spitzer resigned after he was discovered to be part of a prostitution ring known as the Emperor’s Club VIP. A high-priced international call-girl ring that serviced wealthy men in major cities around the globe, The Emperor’s Club’s clients paid upwards of $3,000 per hour for a moment of magic with some classy broads. They say on their website (which has been taken down):

We specialize in introductions of: fashion models, pageant winners, and exquisite students, graduates and women of successful careers (finance, art, media, etc…) to gentlemen of exceptional standards.

Women are rated on a diamond scale (cause, really, who doesn’t love bling?) of three to seven, with their rating directly proportional to a price of an evening or hour with them. A three-diamond ho costs $10,000 per day; a four-diamond ho costs $12,000; a five-diamond trick costs $15,000; a six-diamond tramp costs $21,000; and a seven-diamond lady of the night will set you back $31,000.

Um, let’s take a look at the chick Spitzer was caught with:

How many diamonds do you think this homegirl’s worth?

Here’s a screen capture of some of the ladies of the Emperor’s Club:

Notice that none of them are darker than a paper bag—at least, not without the help of a tanning bed.

Clearly, this is where Sojo comes in.

I’ve been inspired by the work of fellow blacktivist Scribe, who recently ended her Adopt-A-Darkie Campaign. Capitalizing on White celebrities’ preference for brown babies, she put herself up for adoption, even offering to wear a diaper and call Gwyneth Paltrow “mammy” if she helped eradicate her student loans.

This, to me, is genius. Some may call it “Selling Out” or acting as a “brazen race traitor,” but I call it acting on the freakonomics of the day and letting a rich white person work for you.

So here I sit, in all my mocha brownness.

Emperor’s Club, I offer my services to you.

Looking at the screen capture above, it’s clear they are missing some key flavors of dark chocolate. The only black girl they feature—a “Caribbean Beauty”—is lighter than Halle Berry, and certainly won’t cure any of these wealthy men’s chocolate addictions.

(You won't piss of the Spitzers at Seder dinner with that light skin!)

And we all know they have them. In fact, there is nothing a powerful white male wants more than for a black woman to say he has a big penis and let him….colonize her dark CUNTtry, if you will.

How do I know?
You don’t want to know.

I think I’d be an excellent addition to the Emperor’s Club—especially if I’m getting a substantial cut of that $31,000 per day (oh yes, I’m a seven-diamond sister). This is also payable in euros and pounds, which means I’ll be doing some international travel—to lands where all the men are down with the brown.

Reasons I’d Be a Good Emperor’s Club Trick

1. I’m young and fertile, but I won’t get knocked up.
2. I’m discreet (um, you will not find Sojo on myspace, with her crotch out and about, bent over a Vespa)
3. I’m really dark-skinned. I mean, I Am. Black. You won’t have any doubt that you’re doing something taboo when I’m in your boudoir!!
4. I, too, was an “exquisite student” (HIGH HONORS from a prestigious New England private university, what what?!)—the epitome of high-class ladies that the Emperor’s Club takes in.
5. I don’t talk White, I talk right. I can be your arm candy at all your events, and I’ll be even more well-spoken and dazzling than your wife.
6. For the right tip, we can even play “Thomas Jefferson and the Slave Girl”….. let the hate mail begin….

Basically, what I’m trying to say is: if Spitzer had gotten down with a sister, he might still be governor today.

Lil' Massa

Last night was the most magical night of my life.
No, I did not have a date with a wandering minstrel.

I had dinner with my high school American History teacher, her 15-year-old son, and another woman who I once worked for (a hook-up gained through the history teacher, obvi). These are three of the whitest people I have ever known, and yet the connection was undeniable—proving that the great blacktor Richard Pryor was right when he says “We’re all just people. We’re all just the same,” in his autobiography Pryor Convictions.

This may sound stranger coming from me, Sojourner Truth (can you handle it?). Let me explain:

First off, my history teacher and I have had a bond from DAY ONE. It was her first year teaching on the plantation, and I was a seasoned slave. I was prepared to give this White woman hell as she prepared to teach American History—or, as it should be called African-American History. Tall, thin, with an Upper East Side townhouse, I thought Mrs. L was going to be my new oppressor.

But she wasn’t. I aced her class like none other—and she let my first comedic leanings as a blacktress shine through. I actually wrote in the blue book of my American History final: “Often times, if one listened closely, one could hear Woody Woo [that’s what I called Woodrow Wilson] sitting in the White House late at night, chanting softly to himself, ‘Down, down, down, Kaiser’s goin’ down.’”

I got a 99 on this exam. No one saw it coming.
My competitive classmates, vying for early admission into the best schools, were shocked that this little slave girl could kick ass and take names in American History—wasn’t that supposed to be their domain? Shouldn’t I have still been silenced under the mental shackles of oppression that held me down for centuries? They were confused.

But Mrs. L wasn’t. That 99% solidified my genius in her mind, and she nurtured me for years afterwards. She even asked me to babysit her youngest son, Snowden*, when he was 9 years old and I was a high-school senior. At first, I wondered if this would be harkening back to slave days, and I’d be forced to call young Snowden ‘Massa,’ but I was assured this was all on the up and up—and I got paid (holla at a freed playa)!

Snowden is pasty pale with white-blonde hair, big blue eyes, and huge glasses. In short: he is whiter than the day is long. For two weeks, we went to museums, read books, and went on play dates around the Upper East Side. Allergic to both nuts and soy, Snowden’s dining options were limited, and even at the age of 9 his palate preferred French bread with olive oil over PB&J sandwiches (well, in all fairness, the sandwiches would have sent him into anaphylactic shock, so I guess he was biologically programmed to be bourgie). As the son of a medical doctor and a woman with a PhD in History, he was born to be nerdy, and his allergies only added fuel to the fire.
I loved him.

He would tell me jokes that I didn’t get, and I laughed wholeheartedly at my Lil’ Massa. Once, he said to me:

“Hey, Sojourner, how did Rome split Gaul into three parts?”
“How, Lil’ Massa?”
“They used a pair of Ceasars!”

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA.
(I still don't get it.)

Over the years we’ve kept in touch, and Snowden is now a freshman at a prestigious New England boarding school, where young Caucasia is bred for greatness. However, Snowden and the rest of the Mrs. L’s sons (three in all), are very multi-culti. Citing Snowden’s recent interest in African food, Mrs. L suggested we dine at an Ethiopian restaurant, where we all dug in with our clean hands, enjoying our ethnic delights.

Joining us for dinner was Mary, a family friend of Mrs. L who I assistant directed a show for. Mrs. L put us in touch when she discovered my love for theater, thinking that Mary would be a good influence on a budding strong black woman. Though she’s of the Caucasian persuasion, she has a black husband and two mixie sons, and she’s got sass for days. So, basically, Mrs. L was right.

At dinner, Mary and I caught up, and Sarah asked me about my latest man drama—they love to hear how the young people do things nowadays—so I told them about the wandering minstrel. Before I delved deep into my story, Mary cut me off:
“Never call a man,” she decreed, waving her finger like a Jerry Springer guest.
“But, but, what if he’s awkward?!”
“NO! You should never call a man!” she insisted. “You can call your homosexual male friends, but any man worth your time will pursue you like his life depends on it—because it does!!! Without you he is nothing!”
She became even more incensed when I told her my latest crush is an actor.
“Have you learned nothing?!” she bellowed (God bless her for not being afraid of making a scene). “Actors are no good. Sweet goodness, don’t tell me he’s a comedian.”
Luckily, he isn’t, so I didn’t lose any more of her respect.

Snowden, surrounded by three women, just ate his injera and laughed, trying his best to remain inconspicuous. I was caught up in the girl talk when I realized I had, sitting across from me, a young Caucasian male, aged 15 years. I could impact this future tall-glass-of-awkward-milk when he was at his most impressionable.

I had to take this chance.

“Snowden, let me help you out,” I said. He looked at me, bulging baby-blue eyes wide, ready to take in the TRUTH.
“Let me tell you how to succeed with women,” I continued. “It’s very simple.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Say. What. You. Mean.”
I leaned back and took a sip of my water, letting that sink in. His 15-year-old self stared at me blankly.
“Look, when you like a girl, act like it. Go up to her in the dining hall and say, ‘Hello, pretty lady. You are attractive and seem smart and cool. May I take you out for a malt?’ And when you take her out for this malt, ask her tons of questions about herself—don’t just start rambling. Get her to share. And after consuming that malt—which you pay for—you say to her, ‘Thank you for your time, pretty lady. I enjoyed myself. I will call you in a few days.’ And a ‘few’ means THREE. And when you say you will call her, actually call her. And when you decide you’re not interested in dating, don’t try to kiss her on the mouth when you see her at a party the following weekend. Say. What. You. Mean.”

It really is that simple, y’all. The drama comes when a fool says he’s going to call and doesn’t. It comes when he acts as though he is interested in a blacktress and then falls of the face of the earth. It comes when you tell him not to put his p in your v without a c, he nods and says “yeah, you’re right,” and then proceeds to put his p in your v without a c!!!!!

The young Snowden’s mind was blown, and I could tell I made a lasting impression. In about 10 years, some of y’all are going to want to marry him, ‘cause he will know how to behave. Oh, and if any other blacktresses needed a reason to holla at a future tall glass, listen to this:

When I asked him how boarding school was going and if he was doing any extracurricular activities, he said to me, “I’m going to start an UJIMAA club.”

UJIMAA means "collective work and responsibility" in Swahili, and is one of the seven principles of Kwanzaa (which, as you all know, is Swahili for "after Christmas sales"). Ujimaa clubs exist at many colleges, and are often formed by and are comprised of the African American students.

Snowden, whiter than powder on a snow-covered mountain, is starting an UJIMAA club at one of the preppiest boarding schools in the country.
“Lil’ Massa, don’t you know you’re White?” I asked him sincerely.
He laughed.
And so did I.

Good times.

*names have been changed to protect the Caucasian.

Answering the Unanswerable Question

And that question is, “Why hasn’t he called me? Why? WHY?!”

This is a question I’ve asked myself many a-time, as I’ve traversed this dangerous NYC dating scene. Some of my favorite reasons have been:

“Maybe he’s in the midst of moving”
– Brandon Welch, aka “The Alabama Slamma”*

“He’s probably just busy doing some charcoal sketches”
– Me, to myself

“Maybe he’s gay.”
– any gay I’ve ever asked.

“Cause he’s a loser, that’s why”
– this response often makes me happy.

“Because he lives in Australia”
– everyone with a brain.

*Note: Only I call him this.

While all of these responses are apt, I must say that I received the best answer yet from one of my soul sisters, just moments ago. As I was plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, her sweet tale filled my inbox--and my heart--with hope. It was lyrical, poignant, and touching—and I think I will make it into a picture book. Here it is:

once upon a time there was a beautiful blacktress who lived in a harsh and unforgiving city. from time to time, the blacktress would wander out in search of not prince charming, but just a decent peasant boy with the gift of height and the inclination to cuddle. but she often lost her way in the illusion of romance, and was scarred by the thorns of love. finally she had had enough, and vowed to renounce her quest for a suitable gentleman. free of the burden of expectations, she frolicked through the meadows happily, singing with the bluebirds. suddenly, she came across a wandering minstrel. "o fair maiden", said he, "please allow me to entertain you with my witty banter and lute-playing." she was charmed, and not unimpressed with his stature. despite her vow, she agreed to spend the evening with the minstrel, where he regaled her with improbable tales of joining the circus and appearing on prime time television. he shared with her food and drink, and there was much merry-making.

This is a black fair maiden. I had to draw one my damn self, cause you KNOW they don't have that on the interweb!

at the end of the evening, she returned to her castle, pleased that she had had such an unexpected and agreeable experience. she woke up the next morning, feeling strangely optimistic about life and love. she couldn't help straining her ears for the soft melody of the lute, but all she heard was the familiar chirping of bluebirds. finally, wondering what had become of her minstrel, she set off to the meadow where they had first met, but alas! there was no sign of him. a cloud passed over the sun and the blacktress suddenly felt a shadow cross over her heart. the lute playing, the circus, the prime time television, had it all been a grand charade, and nothing more? if she couldn't promise her heart to a wandering minstrel, who could possibly be worthy of her love? in a moment, though, the sun reappeared, and she realized her own folly -- he was a wandering minstrel, after all! he had wandered into her life and then wandered out of it. she looked around and realized that she was none the worse off than she had been before she had come across him. the sky was still blue, the bluebirds were singing, and the meadows were calling to her.

EPILOGUE:

as it turned out, the minstrel had gotten picked up by the county sheriff for impersonating a clown in order to touch young children, and was thrown in the deepest darkest dungeon in the land, where he would spend the rest of his days composing odes to the blacktress that no one but the dungeon rats would ever hear. as ye sow, so ye shall reap.

Here is a rough forensic sketch done by olde tyme police of the wandering minstrel in question.

So, gentle readers, the lesson here is clear: The next time you are staring at your celly, willing it to ring or beep with textage, remember that he is probably a wandering minstrel, and has been arrested for pedophilia.

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.

Damn you, Caucasian youth!!! You get me every time!!!!!

A Conversation Among Heteros II

L: the virgin asked if i was going to have a last hurrah and if it could be with him!!!
me: WHAT??
men are so rude
L: i was like, NO not with you at least because i need someone who's not going to be emo

me: oh god!
why do they have such audacity?
L: i dont know
i fucking hate men
i think we are just a bunch of vag holes to them, who might feed them
me: hahahahhaha
L: say it, we're just all walking holes to them.
holes with the ability to cook dinner
and with better apartment amenities, so its like a hotel stay
me: hahaha
like a fancy brothel
with only one whore

.... We then move on to the Australian, who I am back to crushing on. He's allegedly returning to this hemisphere in May, and I'm already getting hot and bothered thinking about it.

me: I hate liking the Australian because even though he’s a big deal to me, the minute he wants a woman, he can get one.

L: i know! all girls are willing thats why it fucking sucks
decent men who don't think you are a walking vagina are a COMMODITY

Ain't that the (sojourner) truth?

Oh, by the by-- i attempted to include an image with this post, but when i looked up "walking vag holes," "vag holes" and "one-woman brothels," the images were not appropriate for children, pregnant women, or a blacktress.