Taxicab Confessions/ A (Street) Car Service Named Desire

Hey gang,

I’m sitting in on a 2-hour conference call, which is as good a time to blog as any. Apparently Monday's post was a bit morose, so I am here to make amends. Although nothing much has happened in the last 20 hours, I completely forgot to tell you about my most recent cab ride, which was wonderfully inappropriate:

It was Saturday night at about midnight. I was coming from Jewboo’s house in the depths of Greenpoint, and I was quite emotional. I was tired, pissed off, and even had a bit of a cry on the steps when I was waiting for the car to arrive. I just wanted to get home and sleep so that the annoying night would be over. Because I’m in broke-ass Greenpoint, I can’t just go out and hail a cab—I have to call a car service. It started off easily enough, as I hop in and tell him to take me to a train station in downtown Manhattan (economy is rough, y’all, gotta watch the wallet!). He asks me where I’m ultimately headed, and then offers to take me to to my home in Harlem for a rather low fee. My spirits perk up as I totally pull a Blanche Dubois.
As I’m texting a friend to pass the time, the cab driver starts chatting me up.

RandoCabDriver: How was your night?
Me: It was okay.
RCD: Did you have some drinks?
Me: No.
RCD [turning on the radio]: Do you watch cricket?
Me: No?
RCD: No, you don’t?! It’s the world championships.
Me: Who’s playing?
RCD: My country, Sri Lanka. We will win, I feel it.
Me: That’s good.
RCD: You going to your boyfriend’s house?
Me: No [note the use of one-word answers—which I hope will let him know I’m not trying to talk].
RCD: You don’t have boyfriend?
Me: I’m going home. [note my attempt at changing the subject]
RCD: You have some drinks tonight?
Me: No [Why does he keep asking me this? I start to wonder if he’s projecting just as he starts speeding down the highway.]
RCD: I like you. You are very innocent.
Me: I am? [clearly years of cab driving hasn’t taught him how to read people].
RCD: I can take you out?
Me: What? [when faced with a question that should never be asked, I’ve found it’s best to feign stupidity.]
RCD: I cook you dinner. I am a very good cook.
Me: Really? [I don’t know what else to say. Notice I did not reply to his invitation.]
RCD: yes, yes, I am very good. What kind of food you like to eat? You eat meat?
Me: Yes
RCD: You eat chicken? You eat lamb? You like lentils?
Me: I like chicken.
RCD: I make very good chicken. Last night I make a delicious rooster.
Me: Oh! [from watching Criminal Minds and "To Catch a Predator", I’ve learned that when faced with a potentially dangerous delusional person, it’s best to agree with them and return their interest—within reason—so as to ensure one’s safety. How did homey go from chicken to rooster?]
RCD: Yes, yes. I went to a farm, and I got it fresh. You like that, huh?
Me: Uh….
RCD: We have some rooster, we have some white wine.
[He’s really getting into this non-existent date. I keep looking up at the street signs to make sure we’re still headed in the direction of my home.]
Me: I don’t like white wine.
RCD [sighs]: Okay, okay. You can have red.
Me: Um…thanks
RCD: I like you. You are very sweet. I know you are very pure.
[Does he think I’m a virgin? I laugh lightly.]
RCD: You fight with your boyfriend?
Me: No.
[Why do I believe that lying will make this easier?]
RCD: I never fight.
Me: Except with roosters! [I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood]
RCD [suddenly sharp]: No! I don’t fight them. I cook them!
Me: Okay.
[We get within five blocks of my crib. I can now spend the rest of the ride giving him directions. I pay him the agreed upon fee and open the door.]
RCD [in a sing-song voice]: Good night Pure and Beautiful. You sure you don't want some rooster and white wine?
Me: No thanks!
RCD: You are so nice, thank you, good night!

He drives off. I’m left outside my door, wishing I could be as pure as he wanted.

BlacktressFail

Guh.
It’s Monday.

Every night I tell myself to shake off the previous day, and resolve to go into work fresh, relaxed, and free. I promise to focus on my responsibilities, telling myself that the day will go faster if I just keep my head down and get it done. I vow to let go of the anger I feel toward my coworker who I’m convinced is planning total domination of this magazine (why else would he, at 26 years old, be so anal retentive and condescending? He’s clearly trying to show his dominance so that when he becomes the next EIC, no one’s the wiser.)

And yet here I am, 2.5 hours into the day, and I’m already asking for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

I’m still reeling from the tragedy that was Friday’s callback. I was awkward as all get-out, and just didn’t know how to loosen up. I’ve vowed to chalk it up to a learning experience, but I just don’t know—I mean, how many times can I suck/”learn and get used to the process” (as my optimistic friends say) before they just stop calling me in for auditions? This isn’t some community theater production of Our Town—this is television, people! TV, the medium-sized screen! The place with commercial breaks and the highest stakes! The place where the only people with my skin tone are in Tyler Perry productions! As I stood in the elevator crying, I thought about “A League of Their Own”—you know, when the coach says “THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!!!!”
There is no crying in callbacks. If I keep this up, I’ll end up more dehydrated than an African orphan. I’ve gotta man up.

I felt slightly better after consoling myself with Pinkberry, but my return to the office was met with hours of work that apparently only I could do. This isn’t even possible. World-domination-coworker–Code name: Buzzkill—is really weird sometimes. Like, he’ll be quick to point out every mistake you make, but won’t really take initiative on something if it interferes with his lunch time. He regularly spends the hour at his desk watching Internet videos, and will shut out any and all responsibilities during that time. If that’s the case, go sit your ass in the Barnes & Noble up the street.

I began today with an awesome email from a reader regarding some typos in the latest issue of the magazine I’m in charge of. She writes:
I have only reached page 31 and am ready to toss this month’s issue through the window. Either you only use spellcheck or English is your second language. What am I going to find as I keep reading? Shame on you!

Awesome. Good morning.
Apparently my lack of investment is starting to show in the finished product. So, in summation: I’m shitty at my job and shitty at blackting.

To maintain the will to live, I keep reading the reply I got from the Gotham booker in response to my thank-you email. It keeps me going strong:

Very nice to meet you as well. Glad you found the notes helpful. I think you have tremendous potential. Keep writing and performing. You can make it in this business. Will keep you in mind for anything you'd be good for at the club.

This makes me feel a lot better about eating 4 pieces of cinnamon raisin toast for breakfast.

Everything's Coming Up Blacktress!

Happy Friday, Gentle Readers!!!

So much has happened over the last few days, and you’re the only people I want to share it with. Let's get to it.

Tuesday’s commercial audition was a lot of fun. It was for a rental car company, and called for “subtle comedy.” This was my second professional audition ever, and I felt nervous, like when you're about to go on a date with someone you've already slept with. It was at the same casting studio as my first audition, so I knew what to expect and wasn’t all sweaty and awkward. Although my call time was 2:15, I didn’t go in for about 30 minutes. That would have normally given me tons of time to freak out and judge everyone else, but I actually didn’t go there, instead choosing to text Jewboo, and chat up a friendly gay sitting next to me. Turns out he also does improv and was super sweet. We're totes fb friends now.

When my name was called, I went in and just had fun. I didn’t even notice that the “Employee” character for which I was auditioning had a line until about 5 minutes before I was called in (the photocopy was a hot mess--it looked like the remnants of a cave drawing). I even had to play a male character—complete with a Boston accent—so that the agent could see my scene partner say the “Employee” line. It was all of 3 minutes, but it was fun, and I made the agent laugh—which I took as a good sign seeing as he’d spent the last 5 hours hearing the same three-word line over and over. I walked out feeling happy that I got out of my own way, you know? Blackting is reacting, and I did what I could do.

My new way of looking at these things is this: an audition is a chance for me to leave this hellish plantation and do what I love to do, even if it’s just for 60 seconds. It doesn’t matter if I get it, because I’m having fun. I’m not letting the massa define me, or these crazy artists run my show!

With that fun feeling, I went into Wednesday night’s Gotham Comedy Club show with high spirits, but a bundle of nerves. It was my first time at the venue, and it turns out there was industry watching. I went up and the crowd loved it (Apparently, we can all relate to wintercourse)! I got accolades from total strangers (many of whom were middle-aged members of Caucasia), and even had a one-on-one notes session with the manager of the club.

He was all business, in a fierce suit and spectacles that said “I got my eyes on the prize.” I’d seen him taking notes throughout the entire show, so I knew he was serious. When I went in to meet him, I was slightly nervous but I could tell he liked me—probably because he offered me a bottle of Perrier (poppin’ bottles, y’alls!). He proceeded to break down my set, and really, his only direct suggestions were “Slow down, take your time. You’ve got a lot of funny stuff there” and “I want to hear more about the magazine, more about Jewboo, more about Caucasia.” I was like, honey, if I had more than 7 minutes, you’d get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!

He was shocked that I had only been doing comedy off and on for a few years, and told me to just keep writing and keep getting up there. It was so gratifying, and I went home—well, after a stop at the Donut Plant and Lucky’s Burgers—on cloud nine.

On my way out of the house yesterday morning I saw that payment for some freelance work I'd done had finally arrived--nothing says “it’s gonna be a good day” quite like unexpected money, y'all. I knew the commercial was shooting on 3/31, and figured they wanted to lock it down ASAP, so when I didn’t get a call on Wednesday, I thought that was that. Although I walked out feeling good, it's all a crapshoot, you know?

Then, at 5:00pm yesterday the unthinkable happened: I saw I had a missed call from the agent who sent me out. I knew she wasn’t just checking in. I listened to her message:
“Hey Blacktress, it’s [Mariel], you got called back! Call me back and let me know you’re available!”
Yes, y’all!!! Blacktress goes in today, at 12pm EST to bring the funny!!!

I’m blogging now so that you can say a little prayer for me. Imagine: you’ll turn on your television screens and see the BLACKTRESS on the regular!!! I’m trying not to be nervous and just go in and do me, but this entire morning is a wash. I can’t be thinking about fruit in bowls and landscapes when I need to get ready for my close-up.


xoxo,

Blacktress!

I Am Not Limitless

Happy Monday, guys!

I’m really trying to blog more regularly, but sometimes I just don’t know where to begin. At the risk of ranting, I must share my latest un-handle-able truth:
We should have been the ones hit by a tsunami. Let me explain.

Reason 1:
On Friday afternoon I got an e-mail from Ticketmaster.com, alerting me to the availability of tickets to Charlie Sheen’s “My Violent Torpedo of Truth” tour. Apparently, for just $575 I can get a seat in the first 10 rows, an autographed photo of the CauCRAYsian, and shake his chapped, cracked, Gollum-like hand (I’m just assuming).
Why on earth would I want to do this? What skill does Sheen have that would warrant a live tour? Is he just going to get on stage and yell at people? Will he be offering to leave angry messages in the voice mailbox of audience members’ exes? Apparently this tour is already sold out.

Punto Numero Dos:
Half an hour later, I was sent a “music” video of “Friday Night,” by tween sensation Rebecca Black (I’d hyperlink you to it, but I don’t want to give her the press). With such lyrics as “Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday / Today i-is Friday, Friday … / Tomorrow is Saturday / And Sunday comes after ... wards,” I feel as though society is getting dumber, and can no longer tell the difference between talent and delusions of grandeur. Sadly, today’s tweens have very few options, as the covers of “Celebrity” magazines often feature teen moms from the MTV series. We all know I love the 16 and preggos, but since when has being a teenager mother warranted several magazine spreads? Do note that these headline-grabbing moms are CauCRAYsian. When one can be equally famous for having rich parents, winning an Oscar, or getting knocked up by a 16-year-old who works at StopNShop, I think it’s time to reassess our priorities as a nation.

Point the 3rd:
I left work on Friday to meet up with my girl Scribe to see Brad Cooper's latest flick Limitless. I hadn’t been to a movie in ages and was ready to be entertained--even though I do find Cooper to be a bit slimy (doesn't he seem like, before he was famous, he was the guy who'd corner you in a bar, going on and on about his "eye-opening experience" helping Hurricane Katrina victims, and then after bedding you that night, tells you "I've gotta get up really early tomorrow for a life-drawing class, so you might want to get a cab home now"?).

Alas, I found myself uncomfortable and confused much of the time. (SPOILER ALERT!)

The movie starts off with Bradley Cooper (or, as I like to call him, Coop) playing a struggling writer—not struggling because he can’t catch a break or because his work was plagiarized on Wikipedia, but because he just can’t seem to get anything written!!! AAAHHHH, SO HARD BEING A CAUCASIAN MALE!!! What to do with my book advance? Writer’s block is sooooooooooo hard to overcome! Maybe I’ll use it to buy pizza and grow my hair out really gross and scraggly.

He then gets dumped by his boo, which we don’t even care about because we never see them together. This makes him good and vulnerable when he’s offered a clear little pill that makes everything…. LIMITLESS. Suddenly the slacker can remember everything he’s ever heard, learn languages in a day, and learns the stock market (Move over Shia Leboeuf! I bet the ink's still wet on the script for Wall Street 3: Coop Never Sleeps!)

I won’t go into more detail, but basically he goes from zero to hero in three days, becomes a billionaire, and then starts to feel the side effects of this non-FDA-approved black-market drug. Without it in his system, he doesn’t remember a damn thing, and he’s basically an addict in need of 12 steps within the first 30 minutes of the film. At one point, he’s in such a bind that the only way he can save himself is to drink the blood of a Russian mobster that pools outward from his dead body.

Ew.

How does this relate to my rant? Well, quite frankly, Coop’s insistence that he have skills he was too lazy to cultiviate is an example of CauCRAYsian hubris! He’s no better than Charlie “I am the warlock of your destruction” Sheen. Who said you get to be limitless, Bradley? So what if you’ve got baby blues that I could drown in and a devilish smile that’s probably concealing herpes simplex I? If he was down and out at the start of the film and needed the money for, let's say, a liver transplant, or to get his mom in rehab, I might have rooted for him. As it was, when he laid there lapping up the dude’s blood I wondered why it was okay for Bradley Cooper to drink AIDS.

As Scribe and I walked to a post-movie dinner, we were so busy chatting we momentarily forgot about traffic laws. We almost stepped out in front of on-coming traffic, but I looked up and put my arm out. “We are not limitless,” I said. “But we do have options.”
And that, folks, is where I’m at today. I am not limitless like Sheen and Rebecca Black and Cooper’s latest character, but I do have options. The world is not owed to me (and oftentimes behaves as though I took out a loan and am in forbearance) but I know on which side my bread’s buttered—the worlds of blackting and blogging.

Was this a rant? I don’t know. My brain feels a bit fuzzy because I just spent 15 minutes on the phone with an elderly reader who mailed in a printed page of her Google search for a book from our online store—she made sure to underline “YOUR SEARCH DID NOT MATCH ANY DOCUMENTS” before writing, “I followed the instructions in the issue with NO SUCCESS. PLEASE HELP!”
It took me 12 minutes to explain to her—and then her husband, who she put on the phone—that she can’t type the URL into a search engine, but must instead type it into the nav bar. The call ended rather oddly:

Husband: What's your name?

Me: Sojourner

[I have to say it three times before he gets it, spells it back to me, and tells me to go on. I have nothing left to add.]

Husband: And this is about the flowers?

Me: I believe so, that's what your wife said.

Husband: And today's date is?

Me [silent. I'm not sure if he's testing me or what]

Husband: Hello? Today's date is?????

Me: March 21.

Husband: And the time is now????

Me: 3pm.

Husband: Okay, thank you, bye-bye!

Do you think he'd been sitting in the dark with his wife for days, wondering what season it was?

******TIME LAPSE******
AAAHHH, sorry to be so all over the place, but I just got a call from the agent, sending me in for an audition tomorrow!!! EEEPPPSSS.
I better go get my hair did. Blacktress out!

Happy Women's History Month!

Study Undercuts View of College as a Place of Same-Sex Experimentation.

The National Survey on Family Growth found that women with bachelor’s degrees were actually less likely to have had a same-sex experience than those who did not finish high school.
“It’s definitely a ‘huh’ situation, because it goes counter to popular perceptions,” said Kaaren Williamsen, director of Carleton College’s gender and sexuality center.

[Two women sit on a couch after a delicious meal. Two half-empty bottles of wine (one for each othem, obvi) sit on the table in front of them. The lights are dimmed.]
Woman 1: Did you know that most women who graduated a four-year college probably haven’t ever had a homosexual encounter?
Woman 2: HUH?????
Woman 1: I said, if you didn’t graduate high school, you probably know how to go down on some downtown.
Woman 2: HUH????? What if you have an associate’s degree?
Woman 1: I don’t know. But I do have a certificate in special education.
[She leans in to her guest, lips parted. Woman 2 jumps back, flustered.]
Woman 2: I went to Dartmouth, I—
Woman 1: Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.

That, ladies and gentleman, is a classic “'huh' situation”.

This Shit is BANANAS!

Whew!

The time is now 4:19pm and, boy, am I beat! I’ve been working so non stop that I haven’t even had time to check the latest tweets or go to the bathroom, y'all.

The day started off STRONG AND WRONG, with an email from a higher-up that was full of attitude. He flagged the message as “HIGHEST PRIORITY!!!!” and the body text included such gems as “yes I DO need to see the proofs and I CANNOT WAIT” in capital letters and bold font, like I'm some baby monkey who should cower before him. When I forwarded the letter to the massa, just to keep him in the loop (you know I can hold my own, y’all) and included my thoughts on the condescension, boss man replied to my e-mail and cc'd the other dude, leaving my harsh words for him to see! Massa then gets mad at me when I call him out, saying, "You gotta delete trails, come on, what do you want from me?!"
Um, what I want is for you to think before you email. It's up to him as the sender to delete the trail, not me.
The condescending man allegedly said he would call me and apologize, but that was 6 hours ago, so I doubt it. I’ve been busting my butt trying to get this article done all day long, y'all-- all I’ve had is a banana and a protein bar since breakfast—which, if you know a blacktress’s appetite, is saying something.

Speaking of bananas and being treated like a monkey, I wanted to share the following NYTimes.com article I received from The Lonesome Lumberjack:
Woman Goes To VA Court With Tiny Monkey in Bra. Talk about Victoria’s SECRET, y’all!!!

The woman tells the newspaper she bought the animal on an online auction site and had its clothes specially made in West Virginia.

Y’all, what is up with this monkey shit?! If you recall from Friday’s post, Virginia is the same place Justine flew to to purchase her MONKID on the hard-hitting expose “My Child Is A Monkey”. Is this state the head of an underground monkey-breeding ring? I’ve decided VA needs a new t-shirt:

I Feel Like Lady Gaga

Let me explain.

So, last year LG did a concert at Madison Square Garden, and one of her many magical grotesque diva moments involved her pretending she’s Tinkerbell—ugh, there’s no way I can describe a GAGA moment. Roll the tape (start at :30):

I never thought I’d say this, but I totally get where she’s coming from. I NEED THE BLOG!!!!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT THE FORUM FOR EXPRESSING MY INANITY!!!!

My dearest blog darlings, how I’ve missed you (or, I guess, missed myself writing to you?)!!! I’m blogging to you now with one hand after having minor surgery on my left wrist on Monday. It was local anesthesia, and I was out in 15 minutes, but having three needles poked into your hand as a burly, ethnically ambiguous doctor asks, “Are you gonna pass out?” isn’t exactly a party on fountain. I’m on the mend, but have been trying not to aggravate it, which means I’m hunting and pecking on the keyboard like the keyboardist in Flock of Seagulls. As if I wasn’t bored enough on the plantation, it’s taking me thrice* as long to do everything! It’s really put a cramp in my bloggery, and there’s really so much to share.

Let me begin with the information that I’ve been bursting to share since Tuesday.
Monday night, when I was hepped up on painkillers and realizing I’d poorly planned this surgery, I decided to console myself with a documentary on genetic anomalies, which you know that always brightens my spirits. I turned on the boob tube just in time to catch “My Child is a Monkey”—score! I tucked in, expecting to learn about a Mogley-esque child who learned the bare necessities in a third-world country (I swear, the anomalies are almost always in the third world) and drift of too sleep with the knowledge that things weren’t so bad in my one-handed world.

My dear readers, what I witnessed on my television screen was more terrifying than any episode of “born without a face” or “to catch a predator” and a hotter mess than all three seasons of Teen Mom. The documentary wasn’t about children raised by animals or children with some sort of animal feature—it was about White women who adopt monkeys and raise them as children!!!

No, these women aren’t Michael Jackson-level wealthy. These chimps do not walk the red carpet with Brooke Shields. These are regular-ass middle aged members of Caucasia (yes, I said it!) who spend thousands of dollars on an animal that should not be domesticated, plucking it from its mother just days after birth only to put it in a diaper and stick it in a cage for the rest of its life—which can be upwards of 40 years.

Why would people do this? Why is this an actual acceptable business? Do you think it’s because slavery’s now illegal and Caucasians love to cage something? (not you, my readers—but you know some of your people are a hot mess!) As a leathery-skinned middle-aged British woman rode to a Capuchin monkey breeder in Virginia, she talked about how nervous and excited she was, and I’ve never wanted to punch my television set more. As that cute little monkey clung to the stuffed animal they’d put him on (no doubt to make him appear more infant-like), I felt like a misspent youth in a movie theater watching a horror flick. “RUN, RUN, MONKEY!!! THAT WHITE LADY COMIN FO’ YO’ ASS!!!” I screamed. As she and the breeder laugh at the fact that the monkeys know their babies will be taken and the woman hands over $5,500 in cash (in this economy?!), I was about ready to cut a bitch.

Y’all, I can’t do it justice. Here’s a clip (the British woman starts at 8:50):

She named her monkey George. How tacky.
I feel like even the narrator is judging—can’t you hear it in her voice?

It was when we cut to “Monkey Whisperer” Lisa, who helps domesticate the monkeys (called ‘monKIDS’—yes, y’all!) that I almost had a stroke. As Lisa exited the airport with her monkey on her back, I wished it was metaphorical. Two passersby stopped to coo at the animal. “Is he your pet?” one of the girls asked. “No, he’s not my pet, he’s my partner for life,” said Lisa.

OH HELL TO THE NO! Partner for life?! What kind of partner requires you to wipe their ass for the next 40 years? If that’s love, I’d like to pass right now. And Lisa’s just rubbing the monkey’s butt, trying to make it callous so that he gets used to diapers, and has the nerve to say, “It’s not cruel what we’re doing. The mothers jump with them on their back from tree to tree.”
Um, you’re not a monkey mom, you’re a random lady with monster claws trying to harden up his butt.

Y’all, this is like Losing Isaiah x 100.


Okay, y’all, there’s even more to report, but it’s taken me over an hour to write this and I’m sure your eyes have glazed over (or you’re now watching every Lady Gaga YouTube clip you can find). I’ll fill you in on the latest mama drama and the one-year anniversary of Blacktress and Jewboo later!!!

Glad I'm not a Monkey Mom!
-Blacktress


*can we make that word? Let’s get Merriam Webster on the horn.

I Want to Be a 5-Year-Old White Girl When I Grow Up

I know I'm a week behind, but I gotta share this YouTube:



This chick knows what's up! Did mom play Ani Difranco next to her belly when this precocious gem was in the womb?
I remember being this bold and brash. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I stabbed a boy with a spork in pre-K because he tried to kiss me?

Well, yeah. That's basically it.

And I was the one who got sent to time out! I still remember it like it was yesterday.

The year was 1988. We'd just woken up from nap time and were getting our snacks--a fruit cup, I believe (hence the spork). This boy--whose name I can't remember, but I think it was something lame--came and sat right next to me, and I immediately got annoyed. He then leaned in and tried to kiss me, and I used the only weapon at my disposal--the plastic genetically modified utensil hybrid found in cafeterias and KFCs everywhere (is it still given out at KFC? I stopped going there once I decided I didn't want to die young). I weakly stabbed at him through his shirt, and didn't even leave a mark, but he yelled for one of the nuns and told them what I did. I tried to explain that I was being assaulted, but at the age of 4, I didn't have such a vocabulary. My teacher instantly put me in the time-out corner. I was 4 years old, and I was trying to Take Back the Afternoon and I was denied!

So, basically, if I had this girl in my class back then, I might have had some support--you know, a Susan B. Anthony to my Sojourner.

On the Last Day of BHM, My True Love Gave to Me….

The chance to finally be FREE!!!

Hello internet friends!!!

I write to you now with a feeling of levity and freedom that can only come from working for one’s rights. After being bombarded with black mama drama Friday and Saturday, I had to end the pain. Her e-mails were legen—wait for it—dary*, and although this may incite drama, I can’t help but mine the molten earth of mom-induced guilt to reveal the comedy gold that is the following piece of advice she offered in an email.:
It's about an image, a brand. If you're doing voice over about baby stuff they don't want your name and vagina being associated with that.
MY NAME AND VAGINA!!!!!!

I swear, Mama Bear is hilarious.

“Sojourner, how could you just put your mom on blast after the drama of which you speak?” you may be wondering.

Well, gentle readers, not only did Mama Bear say I could blog about her (tender quote: … you can talk about me all that you want. That was the funniest. LOVE MOM ), but just minutes ago I created a new email account for this site, changed my username, AND instructed robots not to crawl to the site—resulting in a full-name search that comes up with NOTHING INCRIMINATING!!! (Well, until Google caches out)

Guys, do you know what this means???

It means I can blog with confidence, knowing that anything I say can’t and won’t be used against me in a court of law!
Well, unless some potential employer decides to start googling “Blacktress”—in which case, they got what’s comin’ to them.

What I do on my own time under my alias is, to quote the great rappers Salt ‘n’ Pepa, none of their business!



If I want to write a blog / about some dirty dog—it’s none of your business!
If I wanna spend my work day / talkin' 'bout what's cray cray -- it's none of your business!
A boss shouldn't even get into / who I'm givin' skins to -- it's none of your business!
etc.

With the monkey off my back, I can now fill you in on the other anxiety-inducer of the last few days: Jewboo’s birthday!!

I planned a surprise party for him that was unlike anything I’d ever undertaken. I reached out to 3 friends of his from out of town and arranged for them to come in to the city. The plan was this:

6pm – Arrive at Jewboo’s house.
6:30pm – long-time childhood best friend arrives. Jewboo is shocked and moved. They proceed to bro-out until it’s time to go to dinner.
7:30 – We go to dinner with friend, roommate, and another improviser—a nice Thai place in the neighborhood.
7:45 – We arrive at restaurant and find TWO OF JEWBOO’S GRAD SCHOOL FRIENDS!!!
7:46 – Jewboo weeps with joy. They proceed to catch up and hold each other close. I become best friends with the black lesbian with the locks from the ATL.
9:00pm – Other friend leaves dinner to “stop by a coworker’s party”—which is really going to the bowling alley to put our names down for a lane.
10pm – we arrive at bowling alley, where other friends are waiting!! SURPRISES!
Jewboo can no longer contain it. In front of everyone in the bar, he announces his plans to marry me. Just then, a writer from Comedy Central offers him a job—writing for the TV show they’re going to offer me. “Any woman who can plan a party like this is someone I want to get behind!” the hipster-y producer says, holding his monocle (ironically, of course).

Everyone rejoices and we stumble home at 2am, drunk on love and accomplishment.

Okay, I might have planned a little too much. But it really went well. He had no idea anyone was coming (although his emotional repression prevented the weeping I’d hoped for), and even though bowling was a bust (a 4-hour wait for a lane—wtf?!), we went to a random divey bar and dominated the jukebox. His out-of-town friends stayed til the end, and when his parents visited the next day, I received many accolades. I think my favorites were:
“You have the best girlfriend ever.”
“You put up with our son; the least we can do is give you a ride to the subway.”
[Bless these chosen people for getting me out of Greenpoint in 15 minutes flat.]

Considering this was the first time I ever had a boyfriend with a birthday**, I think I did pretty damn good.

Blacktress out!


*(h/t Barney Stinson/NPH—aka, Heterosexuality’s Greatest Loss)
**they’ve all been genetically engineered.

A Blacktress in Crisis

Good morning, gentle readers.
I come to you today with a heavy heart.

This morning I received an e-mail from my mom, in response to my blog. Apparently, she “googles me from time to time,” and found a couple of things that weren’t meant for her eyes. You know, like The Best Time I Hooked Up With Someone Because I Cut My Foot.

Awkward Town, Population: ME.

Ok, y’all, here’s my newest initiative:
You know how there are parental controls for televisions and computers that allow parents to block sites and channels so that their children aren’t sullied by adult content? I propose MAMA DRAMA CONTROLS, that prevent parents from looking up their children on the internet. Seriously. She wouldn’t even know how to use the damn thing if it wasn’t for me. There has to be a way to stop her from accessing Google, YouTube, and Altavista.

Being the Claire Huxtable that she is, she proceeded to call me and lecture me on the legal ramifications of my “raunchy” and “work-hating” content. I can be fired for saying negative things about my job, and I could be denied acting gigs if my name is associated with talks of hooking up and what not. We all know that I’ve already felt the repercussions firsthand, as a work-related post had to be taken down recently.

So I come to you, my “followers”. It seems that I, your leader, has gotten us lost. But I am not too proud to ask for directions—and I ain’t too proud to beg. Although I don’t use my real name on the blog, I can’t shake Google’s wandering eye. It seems I have only the following options:

1. Find some way to move this site to another domain (by “find some way,” I mean, “figure out how to move all the content”) and set up a different account that is managed by an alias (I think I’ll call her Glorious Jones).
2. Maintain the blog as it stands, but delete any “raunchy” or “working-hating” posts, and from this point forward only put up links to funny videos and articles, with no mention of my personal life, feelings, or observations.
3. Take down the blog. Remove the BLACKTRESS from the public record permanently.
4. And, what I’ve currently done: changed the settings so that the blog doesn’t come up in search engines, and removed the “rating” that I used to have. The drawback to the former change is that fewer people will stumble upon me and my readership will dwindle. I guess I can still hyperlink to the blog from other websites to direct traffic, but I’d have to make sure that all other sites honored my request to use my alias—and there’s no guarantee.

I can’t believe this is happening—what a sad way to end BHM. If any of you are tech savvy or know a guy who knows a guy, please leave a comment and let me know. To stay with the metaphor: I will stop at every gas station and roadside dive in Awkward Town, asking for directions until I get back on the Highway of Dignity and Future Employment Opportunities (just off of Route 4).

Signs Your Life Is A Mess

I normally don't do pithy, tumblr-esque posts, but I just received the following text message from my exterminator:

Besides i know if i was hungry and thirsty u would feed me i consider u guys my xtended family

The problems with this are manifold:

1. My exterminator has my personal cell phone number
2. I have HIS personal cell phone number
3. I have enough insect issues that I NEED his personal number
4. He has come so often that he feels as though WE ARE FAMILY.
5. He thinks he can count on me to provide basic sustenance in a time of need. I don't have the heart to tell him he's misinformed.

#fml
#nycbedbugepidemic
#inappropriate relationships

May Day, May Day--Folks Gone Cray Cray!!!

Hello Readers,

I come to you now, with my second post in as many hours, with a late-breaking news item brought to my attention by Litsa.

The following billboard is located in the Soho area of NYC, just blocks from the downtown Planned Parenthood offices:




Um, what?! How dare they use this gorgeous, young, gifted, and black child to create sensationalism that is demeaning to black people of all backgrounds--and during Black History Month, no less!!!

You know a blacktress is down with PPNYC (you can check out some stand-up I did for a benefit for them on Youtube)--they help the uninsured keep their down-theres so fresh and so clean, clean, and I'm not hatin' on anyone who makes it happen.

The most dangerous place for an African American is in the womb?! Um, clearly "Life Always" doesn't get out much. Let me bring them some truth.

The Most Dangerous Places for an African American in 2011

• A rally held by one of the 100+ Ku Klux Klan chapters (also known as "klaverns") in the United States.
• The US Penitentiary System
• Massachusetts and South of the Mason-Dixon line.
• A Justin Bieber concert (Well, this is dangerous for anyone, really. Those teens go into a crazed mental state y'all. Come at you foaming at the mouth, all fists and elbows, like a whirling dervish.)
• A home in which a fire arm is kept.
• A deserted alley at 3am. (Again, not racially specific)
• The backwoods of Australia, on Australia Day--or after a cricket match. (trust me)
• A middle or high school anywhere in this country (but yes, it does get better!)
• The offices of "Life Always"--largely because an internet search comes up with nothing. It would seem that these cowardly masterminds exist in a realm beyond space and time--or, at the very least, a realm where no one wants to be held accountable. A dangerous place, indeed!!!

Update: You'll notice that I just changed the title of this post, removing "White." I did so after seeing a news segment on NewYork1 that featured a black priest speaking on behalf of Life Always. Whether he was just a front man or an actual leader of the organization, it proves that there is a wolf in the hen house, and I must not besmirch a Caucasian with my rash assumptions. After all, what kind of TRUTH would I be telling if I did?!

Reading Rainbow

I went to stay at my mom’s place last night, because her Latin lover was out of town (they’re married, so it’s not as sordid as I make it sound, but he'll always be a Latin lover to me). It reminded me of coming home from college: I was directed to make myself comfortable but I didn’t have any of my stuff around, I used my mom’s car to purchase bulk items, and I even brought over some laundry (I swear, it was at her insistence!).

The only difference is that now, as I get closer to 30 (gross), I can really see my mother as a person—and boy, is this lady a piece of work. I mean, we all know she loves Luda, but there's more to Mama Truth than I give her credit for. She epitomizes the phrase Strong Black Woman, raising me solo and even sending me to Africa to live with my grandma so she could study and take the bar exam (and passed, obvs). Mama Truth grew up youngest of 7, in a house run by three simple rules:

1. We’re not going to the hospital unless you’re holding a body part (yours or someone else's) in your hand.
2. If your mother can’t be honest with you, who will be? (i.e. Yes, you do look fat in those jeans.)
3. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and I’ll give you something to cry about.

Needless to say, she’s not the most emotive.

As I got ready to go to bed last night, I went down to the family room to grab a book. A survey of my mother’s bookshelf provided me with more insight than I’d gotten in the 27 years that I’ve been her child (not including the time en utero). Here’s a sampling of the books that were so important to her that she had them shipped from Manhattan to New Jersey (almost a hundred didn’t make the cut):

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, by Steve Harvey
How to Clean Practically Anything
Why We Suck, by Dennis Leary
Black Pain, by Terrie Williams
The entire Cornel West collection
When to Speak Up and When to Shut Up
Dreams of my Father, by Barack Obama
The complete works of Toni Morrison
Rock This, by Chris Rock (This was a birthday present from me in 1998--tenderness!)
The Elements of Grammar
Low-Fat Soul (this book is a contradiction. If it doesn't cause type-2 diabetes, it's not soul!)
The Darwin Awards
Who Moved My Cheese?, by Spencer Johnson, M.D.*
(I didn’t even bother picking this one up. The spine was all I needed to see)
Eat, Pray, Love
The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes
Skinny Bitch
Idiot's Guide to Landscaping

Mama Truth is a real mixed bag, y'all. This would explain why our best times together involve eating and watching "The Colbert Report."



*For those of you who are dying to know (all of you, I'm sure):

The simple story of Who Moved My Cheese? reveals profound truths about change that give people and organizations a quick and easy way to succeed in changing times.

Who Moved My Cheese? is an enlightening story of four characters who live in a "Maze" and look for "Cheese" to nourish them and make them happy. Two are mice named Sniff and Scurry, and two are mouse-size people named Hem and Haw.

"Cheese" is a metaphor for what you want to have in life - whether it is a good job, a loving relationship, money, a possession, health, or spiritual peace of mind. And "The Maze" is where you look for what you want - the organization you work in, or the family or community you live in.

Rider Die Chick

Hey gang,

So, ever since I got hazed and rejected by that hedge fund, I’ve been resigned to the fact that I may not be able to get off this plantation anytime soon. I’ve also resigned myself to the fact that my blog will be searchable as long as I sign in using my e-mail account, and even if I did make a change, Google’s like a war widow—IT NEVER FORGETS. In order to prevent future drama (save it for Obama!), I’ve decided I will only post things that I would say in real life—or about people who I know can’t read or don’t have computers.

Guys, I want to care about my job, I really do, but I only live once— and I must give myself over to the blacktress deep within. So when one of our editors tapped me to be in an upcoming “how-to video” on drawing, I said yes—mostly because I liked being referred to as “the talent”, and it’ll mean I’m away from my desk for a whole hour!

Of course, the video’s going to be dull as dishwater, and it’ll mostly be voice-over, but the editor wrote a “script” that basically reads like a book report on drawing. I got the first draft and was directed to “add your flair”—which I took to mean "cut as much of the crap as possible"--and I did. She was hounding me for my edits (um, not my job!) so I sent back the first three pages along with my rider. I mean, if you want to use a blacktress for the screen, you'll have to meet her needs (I heard Bob Ross required 12 afro picks on standby at all times). Please see my requirements below, and make a note in case you'd like to collaborate on any future projects:

Rider for Sojourner “You Can’t Handle The” Truth (who will herein be referred to as “Blacktress”) - 2/15/2011

by Blacktress – dictated, but not read

Requirements

- 2 bottles of Fiji water kept at room temperature

- 4 bananas, 1 of which must be sliced into rounds

- Justin Timberlake playing in the background

- Justin Bieber playing in the foreground

- Online editor (who will be referred to as “Massa”) must respect Blacktress’s dominance and knowledge of the creative process.



At least 4 takes of every medium close up (to be filmed on from Blacktress’ left side)


Blacktress has very specific needs, and body temperature is of the utmost concern. It is mandatory that the internal temperature of the performance space reach no higher than 68 degrees, to prevent sweating and facial shine.



Preferences
Please meet at least 3 of the following:

- Massa wears a dunce cap

- Video guy wears a newsie cap

- Video shoot must be scheduled to take place over 4 hours but only take 1.5, so that Blacktress may run some errands.

- 5 golden rings.

- 1 ring of power, 1 ring to rule them all.



Perfectly reasonable, yes?

Food For Thought

I know that many of you don’t know me IRL, so any talks of physical appearance will probably fall flat. Basically, I have gained about 14 pounds in the last year, largely because I stopped drinking to feel pretty and instead eat to feel social. I’ve been trying to nip it in the bud ever since Thanksgiving, but to no avail. My therapist has advised I keep a food diary, so that I can see what and why I’m eating like a crazy person.
I already know it’s because I’m on FATkins, not Atkins: Last weekend I ate French toast for both brunch and dinner; I’m a hot mess. But I decided to go with the doctor’s orders just to straighten myself out a bit. Here’s an excerpt for all you lovely readers who might know what it’s like to eat your feelings.

February 15, 2011


Dear Food Diary,

How are you doing? I can’t believe it’s been, like, 4 days since I’ve written in you. I’m sorry about all those nasty things I said about you—you know, that you were useless, annoying, and judgmental. I also feel kinda bad about staining your pages with my tears.
Anyway, here’s what I’ve eaten recently. So, last night Jewboo came over for Valentine’s Day, and I made dinner.

We had:
chicken (thinly sliced breasts) in a mushroom and balsamic sauce
with a side of pesto pasta (angel hair)
a mixed green salad
and cheesy garlic bread.
For dessert we had heart-shaped brownies (I know, I know, Diary--I’m such a sap!!) with ice cream.

Oh, and did I mention that for V-Day Jewboo got me a pint of red velvet cheesecake ice cream? Yeah, um, that happened. Look, Diary, it’s not my fault! It was really thoughtful of him and I had to at least try it! I mean, what kind of gf would I be if I was like, “I can’t eat this. I’m on a diet”?

This is why you’re single, diary.

So, I was all set to be good today, but the RED DRAGON is upon me, and my uterus is aching. You know when the dragon comes he must be placated with sugar. And I would have been fine, but then my coworker brought in cookies. So today’s food has been:
1 biscotti
2 cups of tea
FOUR frosted cookies

I haven’t had anything else. I swear I’ll get a salad for lunch. Or maybe I’ll just have some more Advil. I don’t know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, mmmkay?

From Blacktress, With Love!

Hey Gang,

Sorry for my lack of bloggery of late—it’s been a busy black history month. In the last 7 days I’ve written 4 articles, put together a 96-page magazine, gone on my first commercial audition, hosted a Black History Month-themed sketch show, shared my tales of OKCupid dating with the hippest of hipsters, told an embarrassing story in Williamsburg, and finally performed with some black people. I decided it was time to blog when my boss came up to me on Friday and said I looked like Black Barbie (remember, massa’s a former drag queen). I believe his exact words were:

“Look at you in this sparkly sweater, it’s so Black Barbie. With the bangs and the pony. You are just cute today.”

I was ready to break it down and then got bombarded with actual work and am only now just resuming this post!!! I hope that you’ll forgive me on this day of lovers.

Oh, and I also got an e-mail from a stand-up booker asking, “Can you do a clean set with some Christian material for a March 19th gig?”

Um, what? Is he looking for something Tyler Perry-esque? I have nothing of the sort. But for reals—I don’t know even think I have a clean set. The last time I had to do something clean was at an office party in Australia, and I left known as the woman who said “Vagina” in the workplace.

I’ve been at work less than an hour and am already looking for ways to procrastinate. Perhaps it’s because the one toilet that the 10 of us share is clogged, and our “doorman” is plunging it as we speak. I feel like I’m in a late-80s sitcom.


It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m actually not all that excited—weird, right? Jewboo has an improv show tonight, and we’re going to make dinner afterwards, which will be cute and domestic. I think that after years of being single, I have drained the power out of this godforsaken “holiday”. It no longer takes me over and makes me feel bad about myself. I mean, after all:

I choose to focus instead on the African-American struggle and perseverance all month long, and make February 15 my new day of celebration, as I rejoice in the discounting of all heart-shaped chocolate items.

For those of you with lovers, here are some fun V-Day Suggestions from Women’s Magazines:

CosmoGirl on gifts:
You Should Get Him A Teddy Bear!

Your guy is sweet and cuddly, just like the little fuzzy creature you should suprise him with! No need to get your down-to-earth dude something over the top- stick with a present that can join in on the cuddling and that will remind him of you whenever you're apart.

Glamour on dates:
DO Plan a Date That’s Outside the Box
Remember when Dylan took Brenda to donate blood in the original 90210? Now that was a heartfelt idea.

[what?]

Marie Claire on finding love in unexpected places:
Feature article: I Fell in Love With a Terrorist
[Who hasn’t been there, girls??]

For those without:

Read the list above and remember that this whole thing is a sham!

It Was a Dark and Stormy Black History Month.....

What up Blossoms and Joeys? I’m poking my head out of a pile of work to remind y’all to celebrate the young, gifted, and black.
Except for me.

"Why so self-loathing, Sojo?" Well, I found out yesterday that I didn’t get the job I applied for. Even though I was sorta on the fence about working for a company that would haze a prospective employee with crazy-ass MacGuyver questions, the rejection stings—especially since it means I’m no closer to getting off of this plantation. This is not what BHM is about!!

I did have my meeting with the agent on Tuesday, though, and it’s amazing how simple it was. I basically went in, read some copy (and sounded a bit too “serious” for Zyrtec eye drops—what is with me and allergy-med commercials?), and she said she’d start sending me out! I wasn’t amazing or anything, but she’s gonna give me a shot and see how I go. In business lingo, I’m “freelancing” with her, which she described as, “we’re dating. We’re getting to know each other, and if we like each other we’ll get engaged and get married.”
If only all of my relationships were so simple.

She did suggest I get new headshots, which made my wallet start to cry, but at least I’ll know what I’m aiming for. She’s really funny and motherly, and was very impressed by my put-togetherness (I have a feeling being employed in the real, non-actor world will really give me a leg up when it comes to the details). Crossing my fingers (for luck) AND my legs (for black Jesus)!

Although my day job is still rough,* at least I have some blackting opportunities coming up.

For those in the NYC area, here’s the info:
TONIGHT (2/3), 8:30pm – The Grisly Pear (107 MacDougal Street)
Wednesday, 2/9, 9pm – Under St. Marks Theater – hosting a sketch show! (8th ave btw. 1st Ave and Ave A)
Friday, 2/11, 8:30pm – ABC No Rio, Lower East Side – It’s an OK Cupid-themed comedy show, where hilarious NYC performers share there online dating horror stories.
Saturday, 2/12, 8pm – The Cove, in Williamsburg – NY Confidential storytelling show, with the unimitable Eugene Ashton! It’s very 1920s, speakeasy-style--but without the racial tensions.

* my boss actually compared himself to Hugh Heffner yesterday
Massa: I was reading The First 10 Years of Playboy and, you know, he was a revolutionary. And he never backed down. He did what he wanted to do, even when people told him he was wrong, and look at him now!
Me: So that means you don’t want me to respond to this subscriber’s e-mail?

B(l)ack by Popular Demand

Happy BHM, y'all!!!

Yes, today is the first of what will be 28 days of celebrating the young, gifted, and the black! Last night I was all in a tizzy because of today's agent meeting. I then realized that there was no better day for a blacktress to meet with potential representation than the first day of Black History Month.

Perhaps fate created last week’s storm just so that my meeting could take place on a day when no member of Caucasia could say no to a negress. Either way, I’m rocking a form-fitting bright top and slimming denim, and just used my anti-puff eye roller to help handle my baggy-eyed scandal (I got more bags than a Whole Foods right now, y’all. I look wearier than a woman of Brewster Place).

As I got dressed this morning, the snow and icy rain (aka “wintry mix”) had me stressed. We all know rain is the black woman’s kryptonite, and today is no time for a hairdon't. As I wrapped my hair up and hid it under my hat, I thought about how silly the whole process is. Coming off of last week’s viewing of “Good Hair,” where I saw the disintegrating effects of a chemical relaxer on an aluminum can I realized just how enslaved (and possibly brain-cancer-ridden) I still am--by norms of beauty, my own laziness, and my own tenderheaded-ness.

But of course, I’m not alone in this. Black women have been struggling with handling a hair scandal since the dawn of time (when neander-negros were heating up smooth rocks and using them as a flat iron--you didn’t see that NatGeo special?).
So today I just want to kick-off BHM with brilliant black mind who worked to make looking fine just a bit easier--without chemicals.

Name: Marjorie Joyner

Quick Facts: Marjorie, the granddaughter of a slave and a slave-owner (yes, y’all!), was born in 1896, and in 1912 she moved to Chicago to attend cosmetology school. Upon graduation she worked under Madame C. J. “Thanks for the Relaxer” Walker.

A page from her biography reads:

A dilemma existed for Black women in the 1920's.
[You mean Jim Crow laws? The inability to vote until damn-near the end of the decade? The need to provide for their families with little options besides serving members of Caucasia?]

In order to straighten tightly-curled hair, they could so so only by using a stove-heated curling iron. This was very time-consuming and frustrating as only one iron could be used at a time.
[Ah, yes, the real dilemma.]

Joyner… imagined that if a number of curling irons could be arranged above a women's head, they could work at the same time to straighten her hair all at once. “It all came to me in the kitchen when I was making a pot roast one day, looking at these long, thin rods that held the pot roast together and heated it up from the inside. I figured you could use them like hair rollers, then heat them up to cook a permanent curl into the hair.”

WHAT?! Y’all, for reals! Although black hair care doesn’t seem like a major innovation, let’s look at the genius: Marjorie was just in the kitchen making a roast for her man, and was like, “wait a second…” That’s some straight-up MacGuyver-type ingenuity. When I’m cooking in the kitchen, all I’m thinking about is whether I really have to pre-heat the oven. In 1926, Marjorie turned dinnertime into into breadwinner-time!

Joyner developed her concept by connecting 16 rods to a single electric cord inside of a standard drying hood. A woman would wear the hood for the prescribed period of time and her hair would be straightened or curled. After two years Joyner completed her invention and patented it in 1928, calling it the "Permanent Waving Machine."

Look at Marjorie with that man! She was 98 when this pic was taken, and it looks like she's telling him about himself. She is my (s)hero.

So, as you make tonight's pot roast or soy chicken nuggets, look inside that oven. Think of Marjorie--and think of the possibilities.

My Man Knows All About Slavery!

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!

These Are the Breaks!

Happy Friday, y’all!

What a week it’s been. Highs, lows, heavy days, light days. Today’s a light day. I coul even ride a bike.

I’m still reeling from the inception, creation, and blow-uption that is Black Swanson. Me and KWalsh were just doing what we do every day from our respective cubicles: joking around about portmanteaus, discussing our favorite bears, and toolin’ around with photoshop. Next thing you know, we’ve got a wacky image that's reblogged more than 400 times, re-tweeted more than…anything Kanye West ever says, deemed “so relevant it hurts,” and reblogged on MovieLine.com. That’s, like, a real website, y’all.

Wednesday night I had a show at Comix Comedy Club—nothing fancy, a regular bringer. What made this show stress inducing was the fact that my MOM was going to be in attendance. This would be her first time seeing me do stand-up. Ever. She’s seen me in plays in college, but to hear me on stage telling my TRUTH….well, let’s just say I was freaking out backstage. My mind was racing with such thoughts as “Should I keep it clean and not discuss WINTERcourse?” and “Definitely don’t do the joke about Ps in the V without a C—that’ll lead to a talk you’re not ready to have. “

When I got in I went backstage and tried to avoid the crowd. I had to duck out to meet Jewboo, and when I did I not only saw my mother, but two of her homegirls from work, whom I’ve known all my life.
Mom threw me for a loop. She turned my show into a straight-up Waiting to Exhale type of night!

My mom is definitely Angela Bassett.

The show went really well, and not only did my mother think I was funny (and get really tipsy off of two white-wine spritzers—damn you, drink minimum) but the show’s booker came up to me afterwards and said, “You’re really good. I’m gonna put you on an industry show,” meaning the special shows clubs host where they invite talent to perform for agents, producers, etc. Holla!!!

Thursday witnessed the unveiling of the blacktress's second piece on TheHairpin, in which I discuss my adolescent indecent exposure in front of Double Dare host Marc Summers.

Unfortunately, due to the insanity that is the northeast winter, my agent meeting set for yesterday was canceled. I’m okay with that, seeing as I didn’t know how I could possibly dress to impress when 10 inches of snow and slush were on the ground (at best, she would have put me in a Home Depot commercial). We’re scheduled for this coming Tuesday, which gives me plenty of time to lose 12 pounds and get my hair did.

I’m actually not that nervous for the meeting, because, really, it’s all about filling a slot. I learned in my commercial class that my "breakdown" is 'a black female, age 25-35 (in acting years), with a fresh, accessible look'. I’m signed up for a few different websites that list casting notices, and you can put in your information (age range, height, ethnicity, photo, etc) and receive personalized e-mails with casting calls that fit your type. I get two emails a day, which might have you thinking there are tons of roles for a blacktress. Unfortunately, I’m not quite right for any of these parts. Here are a couple of the recent breakdowns I’ve received (all from various film and television projects):



Tina: Early 30s, beautiful, strong, ambitious but extremely vengeful.

Stacy: 26-30. Cute and curvy, Stacy is the more naïve of the two. A Jr. marketing associate, she’s bored of her unchallenging job so she goes after excitement (i.e. drama) in her personal life.
[Um, wait a minute. Those first two sound a lot like me.]


Apparently, one website thought this character breakdown was so fitting, they sent it to my inbox with a “red alert”:

Pam: 40s, A very obese woman, waitress. She's busy but friendly.

Dina: His beautiful wife. Passionate, dangerous, immoral. 35-40.

Role: First Slave. Breakdown: 30-45, tawny-skinned Moor captured and sold in the marketplace

Kim:(20s)- John's junkie girlfriend. Chic in a six-months-to-live kind of way.


Oh yeah, that way. Apparently, things aren’t so post-racial that a blacktress can be fit for a part playing someone young, gifted, and of a healthy weight and size. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised now that the they want to put the goodness of brown in white!

Have a good weekend, y’all!


xoxo,
blacktress

Black Swanson (h/t KWalsh)

I love Ron Swanson. My girl KWalsh and I put together our heads and created the father of all portmanteaus:

BLACK SWANSON

What's your favorite block of the pyramid? I'm partial to "stillness: don't waste energy moving unless necessary" and "Friends: One to three is sufficient."

You know you love it.

No Country for Hot Babies

Penelope and Javier just welcomed their bundle of joy, y'all!!
I haven't even bothered finding out the name or gender, but I'm already counting down to its 18th birthday. Does that make me creepy? It's the hottest child in the history of the world!

[NO IMAGE FOUND]

When you try to search "hottest baby ever" in Google, there are no infant photos that can meet the criteria!!! You'll just have to use your brainholes!


Honey, do ju think we should name de bebe 'El Sexo Cruz-Bardem???"

(A Vain Attempt at) Radio Silence

Hello Gentle Readers,

You may have noticed a lack of bloggery over the last week. This wasn't a hiatus as much as a crisis of faith (in blogging, that is). I'll admit that I've definitely brought new meaning to the acronym TMI with my posts, but with tags like "funny," "not funny," and "awkward," I assumed my goal of entertaining would get me off the hook (while at the same time allowing me to exorcise my demons). Alas, no. To top it off, I recently discovered that a Google search of my full name (my real one, obvs) will lead you to not only some wonderful (i.e. NSFW) youtube clips of me discussing Ps in Vs without Cs but also my blog! I, Sojourner, can’t handle my own truth!

This has led to me feel intensely self-conscious, and almost wondering if I should continue with the bloggery. Of course, this is the Internet and my posts aren’t under wraps, but they are also something for which someone actively has to search. If that’s the case, should I not write what I feel, or should people I have IRL relationships with not use my blog as a means of gaining access? Or maybe I should do me and they should do them, and just let the computer chips fall where they may? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Bottom line is: It’s called “Diary of a Mad Blacktress,” not “Diary of a Diplomatic Blacktress”--there should be little surprise if it gets darker than it would in person. I’m not saying people shouldn’t get angry when I express my truths, or that I'm a victim—we all know my feelings on HBCUs has inspired to all sorts of venomous comments—but if you choose to view this page, you must be prepared for my truth, my whole truth, and nothing but my truth! After all, my thoughts don’t make it law, and since when has a diary been filled with rainbows and kittens?
I mean, besides Justin Bieber’s.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I do want to let you guys know that things have been a hot mess--and I swear, no humans will be emotionally harmed in the creation of this post.

On Friday I had a 7 ½-hour job interview with seven different interviewers, during which I was asked all types of math and logic problems. Considering I was applying for a position that would mostly entail some copyediting and light Excel-spreadsheet-creating, I was definitely ill equipped for such stumpers as “How can we go about determining the number of teachers in North America?” for which I had to divide 300,000,000 by 175,000 BY HAND.

I haven’t done long division by hand since before 9/11, y'all. The climate’s changed, and I can’t cope!

I left the interview feeling stupider than I’ve felt in a long time. Not like I’m a girl genius, but I’ve never been in a job interview where I’ve felt the failure taking place. I watched interviewers 6 and 7 try to keep straight faces as I botched very basic things (like, you know, saying that the population of North America was 65 million). I won’t go into anymore, since Big Brother’s likely watching, but let’s just say Friday night involved a lot of cupcakes.

Yesterday featured a 2 ½-hour doctor’s appointment in which it was determined that I am developing glaucoma. After waiting for ridiculous amounts of time and pressing my face against what I’m sure were less-than-sanitary chin rests, the doctor deemed me a “glaucoma suspect”. Um, why did she have to make it sound sketchy? Was she profiling me? Did I commit an ocular crime against myself?
I’m sorry if I sound like “conspiracy brother,” but ever since I saw the new Uncle Ben’s rice commercial, I’ve been on the alert for other attempts at eradicating the brown.


The goodness of brown, now in WHITE???? Why can’t the rice just be brown?! How many folks are looking at their plates going, “this rice tastes good, but it’s brown coloring just makes me sick.” I can’t handle this RICism!

After all the test, my vision returned to normal this morning—just in time for me to check my e-mail and read that I was rejected from the Women in Comedy Festival. Apparently, a show titled “The Blacktress Goes Inside Caucasia” isn’t appealing to the comedic women of Boston (I may have to call up Henry Louis Gates Jr. and see if he can get me and the ladies on a porch with some beers). I know rejection’s a part of the biz, but I’m just a squirrel trying to get a nut, y’all! And by “nut” I mean “seven minutes of stage time.” Is that so wrong?

Okay, I don’t want to leave you as depressed as I am, so here’s some potentially good news: I have a meeting with an agent on Thursday!

Unfortunately, it’s not one of the ones who came to my commercial class last week. I say it’s unfortunate because one of them was a hilarious nerdy gay man who referenced both Battlestar Galactica and Truth in Comedy, the improviser’s bible. If there’s anyone who should be representing a blacktress, it’s him.

I was put in touch with the woman I’m meeting on Thursday through one of the teachers of the class. After sending a thank-you e-mail to her, I followed up with:

Do you know if there are agents that specialize in/look primarily for comedians? I feel as though there's a lack of funny Af-Am females who aren't acting ghetto and aren't over 40, and there has to be an agent that wants to fill the void. In other words: I need to be playing Michelle Obama on SNL. Let me know your thoughts if you get a chance.

Best,
Blacktress

I was mostly being silly, but since she had complimented me several times on my sense of humor, I figured I could get her attention with some outlandish statements. She didn’t reply for a little while, so I started to get nervous (you know, just like I do after I tell a guy I have a crush on him). Just before I flipped out, I got an e-mail back from her titled “meet and greet,” addressed to be and some aol address. It only read:

C_____- meet Sojourner. She thinks she should play Michelle Obama on a miniseries.

Two minutes later I had an interview scheduled for 1pm!!!

Oh, and while I’m on an upswing, let me bring your attention to this wonderful video posted by the elite gay visionary Michael Martin. Re-post and spread widely!




*With a title espousing TRUTH, it's no wonder I love this book.

When Will I Be Free?

Happy MLK Day, y'all!!!

I am able to blog because I AM AT WORK TODAY.

Yes, y'all. No one seems to be able to believe it, and Scribe was most alarmed.

Scribe: you have to work today?!

me: YES

Scribe: that is ridiculous!

the post office is closed!

is your office more important than the post office?

NO!
you work in Arizona

we have to get you outta there.

Ain't that the gospel truth? I know I need to keep on steppin', but I feel like I'm just wading in the water. My job seems to think that a nationally recognized, legal holiday isn't real. My boss is basically standing over Martin's grave, screaming, "WHERE'S THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE???"
Or maybe he's just real close with the governor of Maine. Either way, I am sitting here, toiling and resentful, and it shouldn't even be legal.

Luckily, because everyone else has a holiday there are no calls and very few emails. I've got writing to do and can really get into it. I am a bit distracted, though, because tomorrow is the last commercial class, and two agents come in to watch us read our copy! I have several friends who took the class and got agents from it, so it could be a big night, y'all! Of course, it all depends on who the agents are and whether they're looking to add a blacktress to their roster. One agency reps a lot of famous child actors, but our teachers said they're looking to grow their "adult client base," so maybe they're lack means there's a void I can fill. Although precocious children scare/disgust me, I would certainly love to join an agency that includes such high-profile talent as "The Asian girl who plays Charlotte's daughter in the Sex and the City movies" and the lead blacktor from "Everybody Hates Chris." Cross your fingers (for me) and your legs (for Jesus)!

Okay, let me get back to the fields, y'all. I leave you with Public Enemy:

2011: The Year to Keep on Steppin'!

Hey y'all.

I feel like I haven't blogged in ages, when it's really been a couple days. That could be because the sinus pain and dizziness has made time stand still (yes, even as the room is spinning). Or it could be because I'm cramming mad stuff into each day, making it so that, by the time I got to my desk this morning I had already shoveled snow, paid my electric bill, and called my grandmother. G-unit was in top form, and she gave me a new phrase I will have to use. When I told her that I was shoveling the snow, she asked me why I didn't pay the neighbor boy to do it for me. When I said I could manage, she replied, "Oh, I know you can, but you got to be acting. You can't get all sweaty and hunched over. You need to pay someone to do it and keep on steppin!"

Okay, maybe it's not particularly funny because you can't hear her 94-year-old Mississippi southern accent, but trust me--it was brillz. So great, in fact, that I am making it my new philosophy. As 2009 was The Year of the Hot Ass Mess, and 2010 was the year I chose to save the drama for Obama, 2011 is the year I will keep on steppin'!

"Um, what does 'keep on steppin' mean, Blacktress? Is your grandmother really into the movie You Got Served?"

No, people! G-unit doesn't want me to join a step team or stomp the yard. When she says "keep on steppin'" she basically means "do you." You've gotta get the basics done, and then handle your business--in my case, that's writing and blackting.

I think I'm getting there, even though it's causing me to burn the candle at both ends. I had an interview for another job on Monday, and I think I'm highly qualified and have everything they're looking for. They also said they welcome people with "outside interests," and the interviewer referenced going on auditions and flexibility more than once. Although I haven't heard back yet, I'm hoping that they're just playing it cool, and I'll get a follow-up soon.

So, despite the random illness--and the inability to shake the sensation of swallowing, like, egg yolks or something gross--I'm doing well. Especially because last night I had commercial class number 2, and guys, I DIDN'T SUCK!!
I was, dare I say it, pretty darn good!

I went into the class with high energy, and vowed to get out of my own way (the blacktress's mind is like a bad neighborhood--you don't want to go there alone). I wore my glasses and comfortable (yet slimming!) black jeans. We were given a page with four pieces of copy, and almost all were comedic, and they made sense to me right away. I was excited, and instantly knew how to play with it. I went up second, and read a spot for Doritos. We were asked to improvise and play a character. The first take I did a shy, nervous, awkward girl, and it went well. Then, the two teachers went to give me direction at the same time, then fought over what kind of character I should play next.

“You totally look like you could kick my ass,” one of them said. (She totally reminds me on a real housewife of New Jersey.) “Just for fun, play a gym teacher.”

“Really? You want me to go all out?” She nodded.

So I did. I imagined Sue Sylvester, but without the snark and hatefulness. I introduced myself as Pat, and even improvised the copy a bit, so that it ended on: “Like any normal person, I ate the whole bag, I enjoyed it and then I dropped and gave myself 20.

I got a huge laugh; it killed! I felt great from then on. Don't worry; it wasn't like it was smooth sailing from then on—but I didn’t feel like I didn’t deserve to be there, you know? For instance, I was able to laugh at myself and not freak out when I had to play ‘Georgina, a cousin from Italy,’ and the other actor I was filming with flubbed the intro line ("this is my cousin georgina, from italy. word has it she loves...") and said “word has it, she’s from Italy”.

My response: I’m from the African part.

I talked to the agents after class, had them critique my headshots (alas, I’ll need to pay for new ones, since the current ones “don’t pop.”), and even made friends with a WHactress. I learned that comedy commercials might be my thing, and being an improviser actually gave me a leg up over the Meisner-trained, NYU and Yale School of Drama M.F.A. kids.

I will admit that I lost some of my steam an hour into it when I left to use the bathroom and hit myself in the face with the heavy glass door, leading me to spend the rest of class concerned that my brow bone and nose were swelling (you can take the blacktress away from the crazy, but you can't take the awkwardness out of the blacktress).

But even with my potential facial fractures and fears of looking like a hot mess, I got up and read the other sides. I was, as G-unit would say, able to keep on steppin’! Holla!

I Am a Hot Mess

No, really. I'm sweating profusely and apparently have been running around with a fever of 101 for over 24 hours. I swear, I'm ridiculous. I don't know how I make it through this world. I'm so cracked out, it's a wonder that walls don't catch me off guard. I imagine this is what Snooki must feel like whenever she looks at her picture in a magazine.

"Um, what are you talking about, Blacktress?" you may asking yourself. Let me explain:

I started feeling a bit rundown on Friday, but chalked it up to a "vacation" spent in the D, and a hard-core work week. Saturday night I was feeling so rough that I stayed in the house. At the time, I was watching a marathon session of "Private Practice" online, so naturally, my first guess was a brain tumor. After all, that would explain why I was both dizzy and crying profusely. Jewboo came over really late that night, and even at 2am, I was still unable to sleep, as no amount of Advil or Sudafed would take away the pain and confusion.

Sunday was a fog, but I met with my comedy gals and met up with Jewboo at a friend's birthday party. As we grabbed dinner, I found myself oddly full after eating a turkey burger and fries. Gentle readers, my stomach is often a bottomless pit, and this was no NYC-diner-sized burger. The fact that I was stuffed should have been my first sign--well, the third, after the searing pain and dizziness.

When we got to the karaoke party, I was feeling less than fabulous, and within minutes I was totally sweating like Whitney Houston.

Whitney needs to change the lyrics to "IIIII-EEEE-IIIIIIII will always love A COOL TOWEL....."

Guys, it's a blustery 19 degrees with a wind chill in NYC, and this Sunday night karaoke party wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. There was no need for me to be sweatin' like a ho in church.

When I wasn't able to sleep last night and the pain still hadn't subsided, I decided to call up a professional. I got an appointment for 6pm tonight, and it went something like this:

Dr. Enghart: What brings you here today?
Me: Well, it really went off and poppin' on Saturday night. It started out as pain--
Dr. E: What do you mean, "popping"?
Me: Oh, sorry. I mean, it all started on Saturday night. So, I started by feeling pain in my neck, but what was weird was that when my head would pound, I'd feel it in the back of my skull and my brow bone. Is that strange? Am I making sense.
Dr. E (typing intently as I speak, staring at his computer): Yes, yes. Have you had a fever?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Dr. E: How's your appetite?
Me: I ate a really small burger yesterday, which was worrisome.
[A beat. Dr. E doesn't say anything for a few moments.]
Dr. E: Okay, why don't you get up on the bench and let's take a look.
[He pokes the mini flashlight-thing in my ears, nose, and throat. Uncomfortable with the silence, and feeling as though I need to prove my right to pay him $30 to tell me I have a sinus infection, I start babbling.]
Me: I know it hasn't been many days, but I'm not really a headache person. I also don't get dizziness, and I don't have winter allergies, and it's so much pressure, I figure it must be a sinus thing.
Dr. E: And you said you didn't have a fever?
Me: No
[He sticks a thermometer in my ear. It beeps in 30 seconds]
Dr. E: 101.3
[He looks at me, unsure of how a grown-ass woman such as myself could not only not know she had a fever, but could be standing and blabbing with such a high temperature.]
Me: I guess I have the vapors!
[He doesn't laugh]
Me: Actually, I did notice I had been sweating a lot.

He does not respond.

Me: So, does that mean I shouldn't do my Jillian Michaels twenty-six-minute metabolism-boosting workout for the next few days?
Dr. E: No, you shouldn't.

I get off the exam table and he proceeds to write out several prescriptions, most of which are for OTC products from Whole Paycheck--I mean, Whole Foods. Homey had me get a neti pot and some spicy nasal spray, and I looked at the paper like Nicholas Cage in Knowing, and he wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic (I sweat just like Whitney, and also share her preference for a medicinal cure). With a high-dose pill waiting to be picked up, I felt a lot more confident in his skills.

So, now I'm at home, beginning my evening cocktail of pills: antibiotic, sinus spray, homeopathic sinus pills, advil PM, and then my evening antidepressant--you know, just for good measure.

I'm gonna rest up so that I'm somewhat fresh before tomorrow night's commercial class. How fitting that, after 2 hours of trying to sell the relief of sinus pain and pressure, I'd suffer from my own sinus oppression. Irony.

The New Serenity Prayer

Of course, this was brought to my attention by my life partner and avatar, KWalsh. I believe her exact words were: "Thought you'd appreciate this," followed by "I think I need to frame this."

My blog is my bedroom wall, and I have hung it for you all to see.

Jesus, take the wheel!