Tales from the Crypt Vol 1

Hey friends!!

I must apologize for my lack of bloggery. I had little to no internet access during my work trip (those northern NY bitches are territorial when it comes to their WiFi) and had to settle for tweeting the madness from my phone. Now back from my upstate painting "expo," I don't even know where to begin. Do I start with the newly widowed diva who loved to use jazz hands or her sister, who's coming to NYC next week and wants to meet up with me? What about the asshole artist who disrespected me several times in public settings? Or what about the high school girl's lacrosse team who took up all the rooms on the floor of the hotel that I was on?

Maybe I'll just start with the easy stuff for this installment: the racism of AARP artists!

Quick quiz: Which of the following was said in total seriousness during this weekend's work event?

a) "These are the top dogs in watercolor."

b) "White is the most powerful thing we have--we never want to lose that power."

c) "It's a challenge to paint anything that's dark."

d) "With 1 being stark-white and 10 being black, we'd agree that we're a 3 or 4." [followed by resounding murmurs of agreement]

e) All of the above.

I'll give you 30 seconds..........

If you guessed E, give yourself a gold star!!!!!

This event was out of control. As expected, I was the youngest person by at least 25 years (there were two 40-somethings) and the only person of color. "You're the editor of [insert name of magazine that won't get me fired]?" attendees said no less than 40 times over the weekend.

"I KNOW!!" was my standard response.

Okay, I will say that the weekend wasn't as painful as I thought it would be--in some ways. The attendees/grandparents were very nice and had very positive things to say about the magazine and my work. The panel discussion I led at 8am on Sunday was well-received and the artists were great (except for the asshole). People liked my questions--which included such hard-hitters as "If you could paint only one subject for the rest of your career, what would it be?" and "What makes a painting done from a photograph a work of art?"--and one woman even said I had a future as a news anchor. Positives.

Negatives: I had zero control of when I came or went, being fetched as early as 7:45 am and getting back way past my work-event bedtime. Friday night I sat in a painting demonstration that lasted until 9:30pm and didn't get back to my room until 10:30--at which point I had no choice but to get over-priced food from the hotel restaurant because I hadn't eaten since the protein bar on the plane at 2pm and they weren't providing food.

The elderly are hilarious, however, and I did my best to stay entertained. The moment I arrived at the venue, I was accosted by Midge, a local artist who helped organize the event. She knew how to pronounce my last name all on her own, which immediately made me love her (for those who don't know, it's very ethnic and intimidating). After introducing herself, she went right into TMI territory, leaning in and taking a conspiratorial tone as she said, "My husband up and died on me last month, so I'm not myself."

I was told that Midge's husband "up and died on her last month" upwards of 9 times throughout the weekend by both Midge and her sister, Gail. Gail kind of took to me and stuck to me like glue all weekend. She kept saying--in her raspy smoker's voice that I loved-- "I don't want to participate, I like to watch. Really, I'm just here for Midge. She's just a saint. Husband up and died on her! Most women would be in the shadows, but she's out in the thick of it. Just a saint. Have you ever seen such a saint? I haven't, that's for sure."

Gail applied this type of repetition and hyperbole to everything.

Gail on the finger foods at Saturday night's event: "This is just the best little snack ever. Isn't it? Couldn't you just eat it all up all night? I could eat it up all night, that's for sure. Just the best in the whole world."

Gail on her granddaughter, who I have to meet when they're in town next week: "She's a real knockout. She's a blonde, smart as a whip. Just the prettiest, best knockout you've ever seen. She's a writer, Sojourner. She's one hell of a writer. Her short stories would knock your socks off, I mean it. Just the best in the whole world, that's for sure."

Gail on the meal she and her sis had before the event: We went to Wegman's and it wasn't even good, Sojourner. It was just me-di-o-cre. Just the most simple thing you've ever had in your life, I tell ya. Let's go get some more of those little snacks--aren't they the best ever? Come on, let's get some of those. I could eat those for dinner--that goat cheese in the dough is the best ever!" [At this point she would grab me by the arm and drag me to the food table with her.]

It wasn't until I met a dynamic lesbian who worked at the venue that the weekend started to look up. She and her partner Dana picked me up from the Saturday night event and I went with them and Leslie, the dyna-lez's daughter, to a vegetarian restaurant for dessert.

As always, gays save me from the darkness.

I gotta run now, but I'll be back with tomorrow installment of Tales from the Crypt!!!!

Read It and Weep

I lost my iPod some time on Tuesday. I hate my life.

I mean, I knew this had to happen eventually—that’s why I never purchased one to begin with. When I was in elementary school, I was always losing very basic and vital items, like my sweater, backpack, and glasses case. I remember my mother’s tight lip as she tried not to yell and began a search-and-rescue mission more focused than a Navy SEAL. Her biggest concern, being a single mom, was how we’d pay for a new version of whatever I’d lost, and I felt it, too (glasses ain’t cheap!). I think this had a profound impact on my adult life, as I always try to avoid having nice things for fear of losing them.* It wasn’t until I was going to Oz that I thought getting one of these newfangled Apple gizmos would be practical. And even then, I inherited one from an elite gay visionary who was upgrading.

The word “sassafrass” was etched on the back.

I miss it so much.

It’s amazing how something so minor can cause a shame spiral. I am gutted. I'm replaying every moment in the last 48 hours, wondering where it could have gone. I remember hearing the echo of an object hitting the subway platform on Tuesday night as I exited the subway—did it fall from my bag without me even knowing??????? I can't stop shaking.

As if my work trip wasn’t going to suck enough, I’m now without my music.

The best way to deal with self-loathing is to get out of self, and thank goodness for a friend who knows how I feel about the D. I received the following link this morning and it really helped me check myself before I wreck myself:

Half of Detroit Can’t Read. The gist:

Forty-seven percent of adults in Detroit are functionally illiterate. That means almost half of residents can't do basic things like read a newspaper, fill out a job application or other forms, or understand the instructions on a medicine bottle.

Guys, this is getting out of control. First T-Baby, then old ladies scamming folks, and now everyone’s illiterate?????? I used to joke about Detroit being the city that God forgot, but maybe I wasn’t that far off.

I guess I should just be glad I could read and write my way to making enough money to buy a gay visionary’s hand-me-down iPod in the first place.


*paging Dr. Freud—Jewboo, does this explain my fear of letting love in?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm in a weird mood today, guys.

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

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

Thu May 19th

8:30 show - arrive at least 30 minutes prior

80 people, Content R

MC: 20 min

Middle: 30 min

HL: BLACKTRESS 40 m

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

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

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

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

I need you now more than ever.

Tuesday Snoozeday

Hey gang!

First of all, I'd like to apologize for my lack of bloggery yesterday. I was all set to wish everyone a Happy I'm Not a Mother's Day* but I was all kinds of busy.

The time is now 11:15 am.
I just had a camera in my nose.
What have you done today?

Dudes, I can't catch a sinus break! For the last couple months (well, since January, to be exact) I've had pain and pressure that extends from my brow bone to the back of my neck. Of course, my first thought was brain tumor, but a visit to a GP showed it was just a mild infection. I went back to this same doctor's office--but not the same doctor--about 2 months later because my nose was bleeding (gggguuuuuuuROSS!). As someone who's never had a nosebleed and loves to watch "Mystery Diagnosis" I was certain this was a tumor. The pain, the pressure, the erratic moods and uncharacteristic behavior (like gaining 14 pounds)--if that's not the work of an overgrowth of cells in my hippocampus, I don't know what is!^

This second doc, however--who didn't look a day over 28--said it was just irritation, and told me to get some saline solution.

Over the last two weeks, I've had pain, pressure, dizziness, and post-nasal drip. It was time to get to a specialist.

This morning at 10am I went to an appointment with Dr. Cory, a really pretty put together lady who looked like she was straight out of "Sex in the City" (but not Samantha). She came in and explained that she had a cold, which is why "I sound like a smoker." I asked her why she wasn't at home--should she really be near other people's mucous membranes at a time like this?
"My world can't stop for sickness," she says. "Too many things to do."
I hear that! She was clearly a strong black woman in a white candy coating.

I explained my symptoms and without missing a beat, she said, "Okay, we're going to put a camera in there and take a look-see." Before I could ask to see the birth certificate (my new way of questioning someone's credibility), she covered her mouth and nose with a surgical mask and sprayed my nostrils with a numbing spray.

Then, she reached for the camera.
A looooooooooonnnnnnnnngggggg thin chord with a tiny light on the end made it's way toward me like one of those evil creatures in Tremors. I was hoping the image would be projected onto a screen so I could see it, but the telescopic end was just for the doc to look through. Although the numbing agent made it okay for about an inch, as she reached up and back, I was convinced she was going to take a chunk of my brain. "Don't take the part that loves Jews!" I screamed as she wiggled the camera around.

She didn't.

So, turns out I have both a sinus infection AND allergies--in two different parts of my nose. How does that even happen? My nose is still numb and I can't smell anything.

As if this upstate work thing wasn't going to be rough enough, I'll be surrounded by nature and the elderly--two things sure to aggravate my nasal cavities--and I'll have a handler the entire time.

This means that I won't be able to hide in my hotel room if I get overwhelmed or bored, and I won't be able to send humorous blog posts. I'm going to be "live blogging/tweeting" it for work, but if you check out twitter.com/blacktress you'll find out the Sojourner Truth under the hashtag HowDidIGetHere

Okay, best get back to worky worky! I can't wait to get my prescriptions!


Oh, and in other news: The D has gotten so cold that even the elderly are gangsta.

For those who don't feel like clicking through, here's the gist:
Cops are hunting a pack of hat-wearing, gray-haired bandits who have made off with nearly $500,000 in a series of scams in suburban Detroit. Dubbed the "Mad Hatters" for their eccentric haberdashery, the gang of grannies is wanted for stealing credit cards and cash from unwitting shoppers across Michigan.

Maybe T-Baby's refrain wasn't so simple-minded after all. How the F&^% are they 'posed to keep peace when even the old broads are scamming folks?





*a new holiday I just made up. You can celebrate, too, by being remarkably self-centered, staying out past 10pm, and nurturing your dreams.

^I don't actually know what a hippocampus is.

Good Morning, Starshine!

Happy Friday, y'all!

The time is 11:44am.

I have been awake since 5:15.

Since then, I have ---

****Wait, this just in. I must share a phone conversation I just had with the organizer of the watermedia thing I'm going to next weekend.

Guy: So, either myself or one of our volunteers will pick you up from the airport. How will I know what you look like?
Me: I'm black--which should make me pretty easy to spot.
[silence]
Me: I'm 27, which also stands out among the watermedia crowd--no AARP card for me! [he laughs] And I guess I'm tall--5'8"
[He repeats it as though he's writing it down.]
Guy: Ok, great. Unfortunately, there's no nearby hotel, so we'll be transporting you everywhere.
Me: Can you guys just get me one of those Jazzy Power Wheelchairs and I'll just zip myself around?
Guy: [laughs for two seconds, then] No.
Me: Okay, whatever's best for you guys.

******
Why does Caucasia get so freaked out when I tell them I'm black and ask for a motorized wheelchair? I swear, if we can't laugh about this whole thing, what do we have left? I really hope these folks can handle Sojourner's truths.

Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah, been up since 5:15am.
Since then I've worked at a benefit breakfast for a religious-leadership organization that honored women who'd worked to bring positive change to the world. I checked in guests, asked people for tax-deductible donations, and generally tried not to fall asleep. It's not that I wasn't heartwarmed, but y'all, the last time I saw 5:15am, I was walking from a dorm room holding up my broken bra strap! Times have changed. I needed to go to bed.
I also reconnected with an artist-friend of mine, was asked to audition for a comedy festival, purchased really cute sale items from Urban Outfitters, and had some delicious organic egg whites.

Is this what being a parent feels like? By the time 10:15am rolled around, I walked into the office smug as all get-out (even though I couldn't manage to avoid entering Urban Outfitters and making a purchase when I was already 30 minutes late). As far as I'm concerned, the day is done.

What are you guys up to this weekend?

Legal Troubles?!

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Another Openin', Another Show

I haven’t been sleeping much lately, guys, so my brain-hole is a little slow today. Every time I try to sleep, my mind goes all a-flutter and I spend the night rolling over more than Rosa Parks in her grave every time a Tyler Perry film comes out.

To make up for my lag, here's a lengthy post. [Names have been changed to protect those with internet]

On 4/28 a friend of mine sent an e-mail asking if I’d be interested in hosting a burlesque show on 4/30. When it comes to my blackting career I never turn down a gig and told her to pass on my info. Thanks to the magic/horror of Facebook, within 15 minutes I was in touch with my friend’s friend, and Lydia, the show’s producer, who weren’t the same person. (red flag #1)

I send Lydia my YouTube link and within minutes I was booked. At the end of the email, she adds, “bring your favorite pair of high heels for the finale dance number!” (red flag #2)
I don’t do choreography, y’all. I hold the talking stick and makey the people laugh.

After staying in bed all day with sinus issues, I showed up at the “venue” about half an hour before the show started. By “venue,” I mean the girl’s apartment.

I walked in to a flurry of Caucasian skin, as ladies ran around in tiny outfits, applying mascara and practicing their moves. I just sat in an armchair and tried not to get in the way.
The only person who was equally useless was a 40-something guy named George, who had silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He gave off a grown-up-hipster-on-a-gluten-free-diet vibe, so I made chit chat and discovered that he was Lydia's roommate.
“So what do you do?” I ask. Really, I was wondering why he’d stay in his apartment on a Saturday night when his roommate’s having a burlesque show.
George takes a beat. “For a living I work in IT.” (red flag #3)

Okay, I’ve watched enough TLC and A&E specials to know when someone’s hiding a freaky secret. I asked him what he did for fun, laughs, for kicks. George looks me square in the eye, adjusts his specs, and says, “I teach rope bondage to couples, showing them how to engage in rope play. And I also do it for fun. I tie up women, men—mostly women—and explore the pleasure and sexuality in that.”
[I’m not even flagging that shit, guys. It speaks for itself.]

Oh good lord.

Before I could respond to this over-share, a young lady with nice boobs interrupted me. “Are you Starshine?” she asked frantically.
I am not Starshine.

Apparently, Starshine was the emcee, and at 20 minutes to showtime, still hadn’t arrived. (red flag #4) Meanwhile, I’m trying to locate Lydia so that I can find out when I’m going on and how long my set should be. I catch her in mid-sprint and she says, “30, 45 minutes at most.”
Um, unless this is an HBO special, I don’t think that sounds right. “No, not the length of the show-show--how much time do I have?”
She looks helplessly.
“Let’s say 8-10?” I suggest. She nods and waves me away.

At 10 minutes to 9pm, people start trickling in and the show’s nowhere near starting. The apartment was New York City huge—a loft with abstract art on the walls, brand-spanking-new hardwood floors, and an Ikea sensibility. Fancy, and all, but it was someone’s home. Strangers were putting things in the closets. I felt like I was in a youth hostel. A white-haired elderly couple walks in and heads to the kitchen. I take George’s seat so that I’m not in the way of foot traffic. He comes behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders (which are always tied in a Gordian knot). “Are you a drug dealer?” he asks.
Great, now this guy wants to get some heroin and start an orgy.
“You’re just really really tense,” he says in response to my sideways glance.
The buzzer starts ringing incessantly and I become the doorman, letting people in and directing them to take off their shoes, until 9:30—thirty minutes behind schedule, which is when the show finally started.

Starshine appears from “backstage” (the girl’s bedroom) and starts with a sexy opener: “Welcome to Ladies Night,” she says sultrily, trying to get them into the burlesque mood. “First off, the bathrooms are over to your left, down the hall. Tonight we’re guided by the rule, If it’s yellow, let it mellow; If it’s brown, flush it down. We have some lovely ladies for you tonight….”
WHAT?! We're opening a variety show with the notice that urine should remain untouched for as long as possible? What about silencing cell phones, a reminder to enter a raffle, or saving applause until the end?
This is when I realized that I needed to remember every moment of this night for blogging purposes.

The set list was as follows:

1. Starshine opening
2. Tango 1 – Lydia and a dude.
(quick change)
3. Tango 2 – Lydia and a dude—in different outfits.
4. Girl with a guitar, singing a song.

(quick change)
5. Lydia AGAIN—in a different outfit—doing a solo piece. It is an interpretive dance to "Walkin' in Memphis" which she dedicates to “all the workers.”
[NB: There have been three costume changes and Starshine has changed outfits twice. I do not know which workers she's referring to.]
6. Girl with guitar comes back again and does an original song.

[She is the best part of the show, and her voice sounds like she swallowed Etta James. I want to be her bff.]
Raffle-prize drawing—people have entered to win a sex workshop or a massage.
7. I come on and do stand-up.
8. Burlesque number.
*Random dude in the audience comes over and starts chatting me up, telling me how funny I was and asking where I regularly perform. Although I appreciated the praise, we were IN AN APARTMENT and he was talking way too loudly.*
9. Another burlesque number
[note: this is ALL TAKING PLACE IN AN APARTMENT. PEOPLE ARE SITTING ON THE FLOOR—EXCEPT FOR THE ELDERLY COUPLE, WHO ARE SITTING ON THE FUTON.]
10. Lydia COMES OUT AGAIN in a new outfit and performs a burlesque number “Teeth” by Lady Gaga. She is wearing a negligee and high heels, and smiles to reveal vampire fangs.
11. All the ladies come out—IN NEW OUTFITS—and do a group number to “In These Shoes,” by Bette Midler.


Did I forget to mention that this show cost $12 in advance, or $15 at the door?
When I asked what this was raising money for (since she’d already told me it wasn’t a paid gig), George said, “It's just for Lydia.”
Oh, really? You’re charging folks to come to your house, take off their shoes, sit on your floor, leave their valuables unattended, and probably exchange bedbugs while you do modern dance to an early-90s power ballad? I need to find some moneyed, non-actor friends who'll go to any lengths to support my art.

As much as the show was like something you’d see in a freshman dorm at a liberal arts college,* the crowd loved the blacktress. I was really flustered and not used to being in someone’s living room with 40 pairs of eyes staring straight at me. I also wasn’t sure if they could handle my truths, but a throw-away line about gentrification went over really well, and I loosened up quickly. I haven’t performed in front of a “normal” audience (i.e. not actors, comedians, or improvisers) in a while, and it was good to remember that regular folks aren’t so hard to win over.

After the show, a red-haired woman came up to me and gave me some love. I noticed her in the crowd because she was one of the few people to laugh at my joke about sister wives. “We were cracking up because I’m on a date with this guy and his girlfriends [that's no typo, guys], and before we got here we were joking about being his harem!”
I then spent the next 10 minutes following her around the room screaming “WHERE ARE THE SISTER-WIVES???”

I found them. They were sweet yet homely. It was just like TV.

The man in this equation was an Oklahoma transplant covered in tats, had a bar through his nose, and looked very much like he could commit a hate-crime. He quickly shared the story of his first black girlfriend (natch) and told me about how he was made an “honorary African American” in third grade. I was torn away from my real-life episode of “True Life: I’m Polyamorous” by a guy named Fernando. I had gone on a rant about the stand-up comedian/former marine/dating coach during my set, which spoke to his heart.

“I know that guy you were talking about in your set,” Fernando said. "We used to work together doing coaching."
OH MY GOD. Of all the burlesque shows-in-an-apartment, in all the world, Fernando had come to the one where I was doing a set. We went into a discussion about what a “nice asshole” the dating coach was, and I suddenly felt my entire night—nee, my existence—was vindicated.

I gave out my new business cards like they were candy, and Sunday night it came back to bite me in the ass. I got an e-mail from the Random Dude titled “Drinks?”:
I think the title speaks for itself. I'm the bald man from the burlesque show if you haven't figured it out :)
I enjoyed chatting with you and would like to have a chance to do it again. Normally, I call to do these kinds of things, but I'm currently out of the country. I'll be back thursday.
Wanna meet up on Friday evening?

Ah, memories of my slutty days, where this drunken bald man’s oddly formal email, complete with the intimation that he’s worldly, would have given me something to swoon about for days—and blog about for weeks. Despite the 3 minutes of my set that I devoted to my Jewboo, I still had to explain to him that I was off the market. I guess it’s good to know that I’ve still got it after all these years! It’s even better to know that I am not tempted to stray from Jewboo out of fear, boredom, the desire for a tall man, or a need for attention. Growth!







*(You know, right in the middle of second semester, when everyone’s talking about gender as a performance, and your roommate’s now going by the name ‘Zev’ until he/she can decide how to self-identify.)

Tom Papa Don’t Preach!

He speaks truth to power—and is HI-larious!

Last night I went to Tom Papa's Comedy Central taping. I'd never seen him before, but I just wanted to go see a pro show, as I find it way more useful than attending a bunch of open mics where comedians are just trying all their new/worst stuff. Tapings are free, sure to be funny (since the comic’s doing this for TV, he’s bringing his A-game), and make me feel really, really cool.

I didn’t check out YouTube clips beforehand because I wanted to be surprised. Turns out that he’s the host of the reality show “The Marriage Ref.” I’m kinda glad I didn’t know that, or I wouldn’t have gone.

I went with two of my gal pals, and was more nervous that they wouldn’t like it—after all the open mics I’ve been to, my tolerance for raunch, crap, and silliness is pretty high.

When he walked on stage in a suit and tie, I knew it was gonna be all right. I am so over comedians who act like they’re too cool to iron a damn shirt or put on a sensible pair of slacks. If you have the talking stick and are forcing me to look at you, please do me the service of not dressing like a sister wife! (Those gals are clearly saving some magic for the Celestial Kingdom.)

Apparently, he’s been opening for Seinfeld for years, and you could tell he was a seasoned pro. There was one point where he spaced out, and I could tell he lost his place. But he just took a beat, got quiet, and the crowd went silent—I got very nervous for him, like I was his mom and this was his 8th-grade recital. But the moment he got his bearings, the laughter was uproarious; it was good to see that even if there’s 20 seconds of silence or no punchline, a quiet audience isn’t a bad thing. They'll chill out for a sec, but they won't abandon you that quickly.

I also noticed that his entire set was clean—not a single curse word, no real talk of sex—and it was all about the generalities: women, men, marriage, kids, facebook taking over the world. I’m only now realizing how important it is to have the generalities and the clean sets. I keep being told to “tighten it up”—take out extraneous words, get to the punch faster—and it annoys me, because I’m just not a setup/punchline comedian. But the fact is, if I hope to take it to the next level, I’ve got to have a “tight five” (5-minute set that’s clean, for tv shows like Letterman). And if I want to do touring shows (colleges, events, etc), I’ve also gotta have jokes that aren’t so specific to NYC (apparently, even the line “I have had hasty sex to avoid a subway transfer” won’t really hit home to those in the hinterlands). Realizing how many different types of jokes one has to have—and constantly have ready if the crowd isn’t what you expect—is a bit daunting. On the way home from the show, I broke out my notebook and reviewed my stuff. I made a list of everything that didn’t have a curse word in it (or could still work without the cursing) and everything that any person from any background could relate to. I shy away from that type of "everyman stuff" because it’s kinda boring to me. My brain moves really fast (do you see how much I type in 12 minutes?), so when it comes to a cliché or common occurrence we can all relate to, I’ve got the punchline before it comes, and assume the audience will, too—where’s the humor in that? If I don’t crack myself up with it, why would I say it on stage, you know?

As you can see, Tom Papa has had a profound effect on my life. Here are some clips—maybe he’ll touch something deep inside of you, too.

Confessional: Why I Am Obsessed With Kate Middleton

Let me start off by saying one thing: I have zero interest in the royal wedding. Maybe it’s because I'm young, gifted, and black, but something about colonizers joining forces and reproducing just turns me off.

That said, I must take this public forum and turn it into group therapy, because my insurance doesn’t cover it. Here goes:
I am obsessed with Kate Middleton.

Seriously. And not just because she’s like a porcelain doll—it’s because she’s a mystery. What do we know about her? Who is this WASPy mastermind that set her sights on the future king of England back in college and spent her entire adult life waiting to be a bald man's wife?

Okay, maybe every girl wants to be a princess when she’s little, but by the time most of us hit 14, we let it go. Willie had no choice—in exchange for being expelled from his mom’s uterus, he’s had to live in the public eye, which has made him such a self-conscious, nervous wreck that he’s losing his hair (maybe he’s pulling it out, Trichotillomania-style).

Who would want to commit to a life of scrutiny?

Someone who is so child-like, dedicated and disconnected from reality that she makes Natalie Portman's character in Black Swan look like Sweet Valley High twin.

Do you see why she’s impossible to get over? Her determination to do something so archaic takes my breath away.

She’s a public figure with no voice at all. What does Kate do when she’s not running, playing polo, or wearing a pretty dress? Do you think that she decided she wanted to be a princess when the economy got bad and jobs were scarce? I imagine that at the end of a long day of counting calories, she just sits in her house, drinking white wine on the couch with the shades drawn (gotta hide from the paps!). Over the last 8 years, Kate has probably experienced walks of shame that I’ve only lived through in my nightmares.

If I ever met Kate, I don’t know what I’d do.

Well, first, I’d ask if I could call her Kay-Kay, to establish a sense of intimacy. When she gives me the OK, my first question would be immediately answered—what does her voice really sound like????? (Seriously, have you ever heard her speak or read anything she’s been quoted as saying? I’m convinced the girl’s had her jaw wired shut.)

[In my mind, her voice is throaty and her laugh comes from the diaphragm. After you’ve gotten her good and drunk on sauvignon blanc, she cackles loudly and then covers her mouth with her hands in embarrassment.]

My next question would be something like, “Where do you get those ornate hats? Are there Southern Baptist black women in your family?” In my dream she’s wearing a hat during our coffee date, and she lets me try it on. I know it might sound silly to think there are black women in her family, but think about it—Wills proposed during a vacation in Kenya. Guys, that’s in AFRICA. Why would that be the most romantic place to propose if they weren’t already down with the brown?

Kate and William broke up for a few months in 2007, and were back on by the end of the year. In most human relationships, that's called a 'fake-up,' and is just a precursor to final parting within 6 months. Kate, however, managed to get a 25-year-old man to want to commit for life--she is an inspiration.

I bet she left messages that were creepier than the killer in Scream.

We all know Diana had her demons, and was open about her emotional issues—who wants to bet that Wills loves his women tightly wound and self-loathing?

I feel like her hair smells like coconut and she only gives hand jobs.

The Bride of Francostein? (too much?)

It’s only 9am, but so much has happened in the last 12 hours that I feel it is behoovy of me to blog. This is a bit unorthodox, I know, seeing as we’ve settled into a nice Mon/Wed/Fri schedule.

So, on my way home last night I was waiting for forever and a day for the train and I noticed a petite man with a tight bod wearing hearing aids.
Okay, before this sounds like a creepy fetish, let me backtrack: We all know that after I graduated from college my first job was working as the voicing actor with the National Theater of the Deaf, during which time I shared a bedroom with a 40-year-old Deaf, lesbian juggler named Pinky, right?

Well, there it is.

After one of the NTD shows, I met this actor who was really nice. It was at a time when I was really strong as a signer, and I remember him complimenting my skills. He was in his mid-20s, a professional actor, and gave me his business card—which I thought was so cool because it had his headshot on it. Because this was one of the few pleasant experiences I had while touring with the Deaf—and because I’m a low-level hoarder—I kept that headshot-business card until about 2 months ago.

This would explain why I recognized him, even from the back.
I was in a good mood after seeing a great storytelling show, and had already accosted someone that night, so I was on a roll. I got the guy’s attention and asked him his name. It was him!!!!!

We started chatting, and I realized just how rusty my ASL is. He was really nice about it and patient, and I was totally geeking out. I know it sounds cheesy, but I really love signing—it’s expressive, it’s full-body, the language appeals to the blacktress in me—and I’ve missed doing it. There was, however, an awkward moment, when he told me about his plans to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650 mile trail starting from Mexico to Canada. I signed, “Why do you want to go outside and pretend to be dirty and poor?”

Since signing is about thinking in pictures and almost a muscle memory thing, it’s very common to use the wrong sign by thinking only of the word. However, there’s really no excuse for the fact that, instead of the sign for ‘poor,’ I made the sign for ‘penis.’

“Well, I guess penises can make you dirty,” he said. What a peach!

Turns out he lives just around the corner from me. I hope we’ll be best friends when he comes back from his crazy-ass hike—unless he becomes too crunchy and spends the next 2 years talking about his communion with nature.

Although that was a magical moment, I was actually inspired to blog when I woke up this morning after having a crazy-ass dream (you know how much I love those)

In this dream, actor, scholar, and Hollywood’s favorite “Renaissance Man” James Franco, was the managing editor of my magazine. I handed him a draft of one of my editor's notes to review, and he gave it a once over. In his dopey “Pineapple Express” way of his, he said, “Where’s the passion? Why aren’t you into it?” He wanted flowery prose about the beauty of representational art.

“I can add that later,” I said. “It’s easier to put the flowery in later than write too much to start. You can just mark it up with places you’d like some ‘passion’ and I’ll put it in on edit.”
He hands me back the page a few minutes later and he’s crossed out, like, 90% of it. I roll my eyes, and start writing again. Ugh, Francostein, you're a real PITA (Pain In The Ass)

I'm James Franco. I am a Renaissance Man. I've got a bear in a head lock.

I hand the new draft over to James Franco, my new boss, and watch him read it. He nods a few times, then proceeds to cross out the entire middle paragraph. I start muttering curses and go back to my desk.

Look at him, all judgmental and shit. His eyes are practically saying, "You call that writing? I have an advanced degree from Columbia."

Cut to the interior of Duane Reade, a drugstore chain in the city. I’m in line with KWalsh (yes, Katie, you appear in my dreams), and I’m bitching about James Franco. I am so annoyed and frustrated that for some reason I’m sliding on the floor and grabbing KWalsh’s leg, and yelling, JAMES FRANCO IS A TASK MASTER!!!

Then I woke up.

Let me take a moment to say that I am not attracted to James Franco in any way. I think he looks dirty and mean, has a molestache, and his eyes disappear when he smiles. So why he would appear in my REM cycle, I don’t know.

Ugh, gross.

In other news: I’m suffering from a sex-related knee injury. Who am I?

Monday Funday!

Hey there, Zachs and Kellys!

Today is Monday/Cheap Easter Candy Day! and although I've been at my desk since 8:15, I am still too slow in the brainhole to come up with witty bloggery. In the place of Sojourner's truths, I'd like to provide you with some humorous internet videos that speak to me in many ways. For the first, I must thank bounce music lover Michael Gottwald. Like me, Michael is a goy who loves Jews, and he has found a video that best encapsulates the lengths we'll go to for a Hebrew National:

Love the Ethiopian-Jew cameo.

The video below encapsulates everything that's hilarious about Caucasia, Will Ferrell, and race relations. Oh, and of course, the drunk comedian is great (who hasn't laid down on the couch on the verge of a blackout and said 'my legs are showing.'?) In my mind, Zooey Deschanel has never been less annoying! See for yourself what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real... drunk:

Mmmkay....it's 9:11am and no one else is here. Is today a holiday that I don't know about? Maybe I'm being punked.

Wedded Bliss/I'm a Fatty

I'm still doing it, guys--three posts this week! To get you through the blacktress-free weekend, here's a real long 'un.....

It's 10:45am and I got to work about 30 minutes ago—and the first thing I do is start blogging. After leaving the house 30 minutes late, I headed straight into the GAP store 2 blocks from my office to buy a pair of jeans. You see, guys, I woke up this morning and discovered that NONE OF MY PANTS FIT ME.

Yes, I have gotten just that tubby. I left the house in pants that would not zip or button, like some sort of Klump.

FML.

I was in a pit of despair most of this week and haven't been sleeping—my only solace came Tuesday night at 12:30am, when I was able to catch the last half hour of the newest episode of "16 and Pregnant" (right at the good part, where she gives birth, goes home, and discovers that babies are "a lot of work"), followed by the genetic-anomaly documentary "My 40-year-old Child." I thought it would be about adult males who spend all day making humorous internet videos, but it was about a boy who was 40 years old but had the body of a 10 year old, and was blind and mentally handicapped. Really tugged at the heartstrings.

I started to rally yesterday—even sleeping more than 6 hours last night—and then woke up to discover that I'm a lard ass.
So I went to the GAP, where a size 4 is really a 10, and made a purchase. Diet starts today.

I think I'm gonna hop on the Jew train and observe Passover, see if I can drop some of this 16-and-pregnant belly. (Any group that builds an Atkins diet into their religion knows how to live. They don't call them 'The Chosen People' for nothing!)

After all, spring’s just around the corner, and summer is two houses down from there, so I won't be able to hide under layers for very long. I can't wait to sit in Central Park and eye-fuck strangers without consent behind my sunglasses (a lady always uses protection). In addition to the lengthened days and increased temperatures, there's yet another reason to stop eating my feelings: wedding season.
[NB: The following piece was rejected from TheHairpin, and largely intended for that audience. Soon-to-be-wedded friends, take a cue from mid-90s R&B songstress Monica, and don't take it personal!*]

I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t think I’d have to go to these until my 30s, at which point I would not only be financially solvent (and able to buy gifts on your multiple registries and travel to such exciting destinations as your grandmother’s home in Des Moines), but I’d have my own boo locked down—or, at the very least, a bitter divorce that would excuse me from attending. So far I am attending four weddings in 2 months, two of which take place on back-to-back weekends in Vermont. What am I supposed to do there? The last time I was out in nature, I got a tick in my woman parts.

“But Sojourner, what about all the free food, unlimited booze, and merriment?” you may ask. Look, I love a good shindig as much as the next blacktress, but by the time I find a dress that I’m willing to be photographed in, book a hotel, and get to the venue, no amount of Trader Joe’s wine can take that edge off. I inevitably find myself standing by the dessert buffet next to the groom’s aunt or cousin, who points to the happy couple saying, “that’s gonna be you next, dear!”
Um, Aunt Rina, my Jewboo and I make Monopoly money and we can’t even share food, let alone a lifetime.

I’m never a bridesmaid, but the fact that I’m a comedian/actor often gets me roped into other tasks. Remember when I planned a bachelorette party for my doctor-friend? Next month I’ll be doing a brief reading for a Midwestern ceremony and even attend the rehearsal dinner (i love food—see above—but why do I have to practice eating???). I know these are magical times in good friends’ lives, but can’t I just comment on the post-wedding facebook album and pretend I was there? Regardless, I’m gonna have to go through hundreds of photos to either un-tag myself or have something to watch while I’m eating ice cream and sobbing.

My mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and I’ll give you something to cry about.” So I’ve come up with a list of activities that can make this wedding season a bit less depressing:

• See opportunity to hang out with people over the age of 40 as a chance meet potential financial backers, agents, and managers. It may be the bride’s special day, but you’ve still got bills to pay, and dreams that can no longer be deferred! (Only do this if you have 20-40 8-x-11 headshots)
• Order both the fish and beef entrée and go to town.
• Arrive at the reception in fuzzy house slippers. If anyone balks, ask them if they know where your mommy is—adorable!
• Find the one psychologist on the guest list and get some free medical attention. (It’s likely that if you have a few too many glasses of white wine, you’ll start crying and this person will come to you.)
• Tack on extra days to either end of the trip and try to get some you-time in. Nothing says “I’m worth it!” like the presidential sweet at the Des Moines Radisson.
• Request “Single Ladies” every hour on the hour, clearing the dance floor each time to display your skillzzz.
• Practice identity theft. Forget the out-of-town guests—find the out-of-country guests and create a mystique. I enjoy starting a whisper campaign in which I claim to be a television star (movies have too international a reach. Name some local show the Germans haven’t heard of, and you’ll be the center of every photo for the rest of the night).
• If you can’t bring a boo, bring your main gay. He’ll look really cute, charm everyone, and always tell you if there’s food in your teeth.
• Help the help—not by doing actual labor, but by chatting them up. They’re almost all creative types and have a wonderful bitter streak that will be able to handle your self-loathing. Bonus points if you make out with a waiter by the crab puffs—or get a doggie bag filled with crudité.

This is what we call turning lemons into lemon drops, people.

*For those who don't know, here's one of the greatest songs in the history of R&B:

The MotherF**ker With the Hat: A Broadway Show

I had to explain it in the title so that no one would get upset.

Happy Wednesday, readers! Even though I'm bout ready to pass out, I've got to stick to my every-other-day rule.

Just got back from seeing the new Broadway show "The Motherf**ker with the Hat," starring Chris Rock, Annabella Sciora, and Bobby Canavale, and it was soooooo good!!! I have loved Bobby Cannavale since he was on "Will & Grace," and he was just beyond unbelievable. The emotions were at 10 from the beginning of the show, and they sustained it throughout.

Chris Rock was great (the character suited his style, and he was natural on stage), that Bobby Canavale is an out of this world actor, and the 100-minute show was relentless in its rapid-fire pacing.

Okay, enough Ebert-ing from me.

I went to see the show with my mom and my secretly-gay uncle, who's here for a week on vacation (he lives in The D--you know, where it's so cold). He's staying with me, and at first, I was nervous, as I've gotten quite accustomed to having my morning Saved-by-the-Bell-watching "me" time, and he is up with the sun and chatty-chatty. But the best part about secretly-gay uncle is that as a childless 60 year old, he's always happy to break a piece off to his young, gifted, and black(tress) niece. He also fancies himself an aesthete and mostly wants to spend his time in museums, but being from Detroit, he's very easily impressed (this became apparent when he raved about the service at the neighborhood Applebee's--bless).

He really enjoyed the show (not as good as Sister Act, which he loved), but our fun was dampened a few times during the show by some very ignorant audience members who acted as though they were watching a damn movie! During Chris Rock's first scene, an audience member yells out "Love you, Chris Rock!" and totally threw him off. Rock even turned out a little bit and said, "What did you just say? I just forgot my part" and he fumbled for a bit while Cannavale--ever the professional--fed him a trigger to get him back up to speed.
This isn't a fucking Bieber concert--you can't be yelling out like Chris is gonna bring you on stage and serenade you!
After sharing a three-way look, my mom, uncle, and I see an usher tap a young black guy on the shoulder--he was the yeller.
This is why black people can't have nice things, y'all.

Toward the end of the play, during a really emotional scene, another knucklehead yells out to Bobby Cannavale, "We love you, Jackie [the character's name in the show]!"
What the?! When did Broadway become a scene out of Dangerous Minds? As much as I love Chris Rock bringing all kinds of people to the theater, I think there needs to be a sobriety test or something before you're allowed to take your seat.

At the end of the show, the cast came out to their standing ovation and Cannavale talked about Broadway Cares. "You've been a really great audience--most of you," he began. He was instantly met with resounding applause. I could imagine being on that stage and being so pissed; I can't believe they were able to stay with it through that foolery. (the show was really intense, and although it was funny, it was very dark)

Secretly-gay uncle wants to see some more shows while he's here, so I may try to tag along. I want to see "Book of Mormon," but he's really itching to check out "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert."

See you Friday!

Mondays With Artists / National Treasure 3: Horses, Flowers, and People

It’s back, guys!!!!

When my mother shamed me into thinking I was a talentless whore (I won't go into it), I ended up taking down my Mondays With Artists posts, but I will no longer hide my light under a bushel! I just got a letter in the mail—complete with Polaroids—that was too good to keep to myself.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have the honor of knowing [An Old Lady Name]. Her gifts deserve worldwide recognition. I think an article on her would be a great human story. Here’s a bit on her life and work. I’d bet you’ll agree she is one very interesting gal.

[Okay, we go from referring to her as an ‘honor to know’ then get all folksy and warm, saying she’s a ‘gal’…I’m not sure what to make of this.]

A treasure, a living, breathing, treasure…how else to describe a woman who has lived a inspiring life for 76 years.
[Because there’s no question mark at the end, I assume this is not up for debate.]

As a youngster, she was clearly out of the box. She resorted to drastic measures to defy a school system that couldn’t respect her gifts, such as putting red dots on her face to feign chicken pox. Her candid portraits of people and horses and flowers are distinctive*.
[* Isn’t that a word you use when something is ugly, but you want to be nice?]

To my mind she is a national treasure, a strong independent, dutiful artist, doing her art of living for anyone lucky enough to know her to witness.

[I don’t know what to make of this last sentence.]

Guys, when I’m old and random and talking about my glory days, will you write to Comedy Central and tell them that I’m a treasure? A living, breathing, national treasure?

If You Prick Me, Do I Not BLOG?

I realized that one of the main reasons my blogging has taken a dip is that, as my readership increases among people who actually know me, there's less room for self-expression. I'm not saying everyone should be able to handle Sojourner's Truths, but if you prick me, do I not bleed (and then blog about it to help heal)?? I've been holding out on you, gentle readers, and it just feels wrong. Here's what you've missed:

1. Two weeks ago I was denied my dream apartment. It was huge, the rent included all utilities and cable/internet, and the guy's youngest daughter is a student at my high school! When I walked in and saw books on Venus Hottentot and "Race and Gender in Post-Colonial America," I knew this potential landlord could handle my truth. He told me about his trans-racial adopted daughter (look it up, it's a term), and also said that she was interested in attending my alma mater, Diversity University. So when he ignored my emails for a week, I was shocked and dismayed--the man was a professor of Divinity, no less! How could he let me down???

2. Perhaps it was for the best, though....I did my taxes last week and apparently I'm taking too many deductions and now owe the tax man some real money--money that I don't have!!! I guess I gotta get myself out of debt before I can go signing a lease.

3. I had a job interview just a few days after the apartment/tax debacle, and thought things might be looking up. We all know how I feel about the plantation, so I'm ready to leave whenever. Add to that the fact that the overseer got fired 5 days ago (the one above the massa, not in our office), and they're cutting people's pay like a pimp with shiv, and it would seem that this interview was a gift from the heavens. The job was an admin position, but I'm just looking for something that lets me pursue my blackting dreams and pay my bills. I met with the entire staff for three hours, and they seemed to like me.

Unfortunately, I didn't like them.

Although the benefits would have been good, there was zero flexibility. I would have been manning the phones, doing spreadsheets, and planning events non-stop. "But it's really relaxed in June and July," the current admin said encouragingly. "You can take more than 10 minutes for lunch, you know?"

No, I don't know. For all the drama of my current position, I am able to run off for auditions, doctor's appointments, and generally handle my business as long as the magazine gets written.
I was going back and forth on even going back in for a 2nd interview when I got the following email from my potential boss--at 11pm last Saturday night, no less:

Please accept an apology for my delay in getting back to you. Friday turned into a nightmare because we had to completely change meetings we'd scheduled with an editor of [An Important Newspaper]. One of the paper's reporters was taken into custody early Friday by Col. Qaddafi's troops in Libya so the editor had to change his schedule for the interviews.

Y'all, I can't working in an office where Qaddafi's messin' up the flow! I get frazzled when an artist doesn't send high-resolution digital images--detainees would be a whole 'nother Oprah!

But am I an idiot? Should I have gotten out while the gettin' was good? I had dinner with a friend last night who didn't mince words, basically saying that I was a fool and lazy to not get a new apt and leave the sinking ship that is my current job.

But what about my blackting dreams? Should they wither like a raisin in the sun?

Last week's showcase was lackluster, with 15 comics performing at 6 minutes each--it was like speed-dating the audience, only they weren't interested in making a love connection. I was un-lucky number 13, and by the time I went up, their eyes had glazed over, and many were fighting with the waitresses over the bill (that drink minimum's no joke!). The producer did say he liked my energy and presence and wanted to see more work, and another comic told me to contact him about doing a set on his show, but it's not exactly momentum building.

I've been given a copy of "The Artist's Way," along with several rhyming platitudes. I think my favorite is "Man's Rejection is God's Protection." This came after my pitches to The Hairpin kept getting rejected. The editor is treating me like every man I've ever been on a date with, saying, "You're funny, but not quite right."

Le sigh. (it's more dramatic if it's French)

So here are a couple of tidbits that missed the Hairpin by a hair (how could she not love such puns?!):

Filed Under: Childhood, Television, Memories

I was cleaning stuff out of my old bedroom, and had to sort through a bunch of boxes, two of which were filled with the entire Babysitter's Club Collection. A bunch of other boxes were filled with paper, and as I prepared to dump them all in the recycling bin, the hoarder in me had to pore over every single one to make sure it was all really junk. I came across many gems, and figured the best way to preserve the memories would be to type them up and share them with strangers. Here is one of many letter I wrote to actors in my favorite TV shows.


Written in October of 1993. I was 9 years old (in my best attempt at cursive):

Dear Rider,

My name is [Sojourner], and I'm a HUGE fan of your show. You're a really good actor, and I think you're really cute. :)
When did you know you wanted to be an actor? I want to be an actress, but I don't think there are black people on Boy Meets World, so I'm trying to get on The Cosby Show. Or GHOSTWRITER--have you ever seen that show? It's about a ghost that solves mysteries by rearranging letters. It's cool.

I don't normally write fan letters, and I don't want you to think I'm a creepy stalker [note: "I am not a creepy stalker" was written on the black flap of the envelope as well...which i think is the same as saying 'i'm mentally ill'.]. I just wanted to say how much I liked your show and how cool I think you are. Is Topanga nice in real life? Do you still have to go to school, or are you done with it forever?

Sorry if my handwriting's messy. I kept trying to start over and this is my last piece of good paper, so I hope it's okay.

Sincerely,
[Sojourner 'You Can't Handle The' Truth]

When Rider got a black girlfriend in the last two seasons of the show, I knew it was no coincidence.

File under: Accomplishments, Beauty, How to be a Girl
Thai Tween is Named World's Hairiest Girl

Supatra Sasuphan has told of her delight at being named the 'World's Hairiest Girl.' She has been teased her entire life by other children calling her “monkey face” and “wolf girl”, but now the 11-year-old has been given a Guinness World Record and she says it has helped her become extremely popular at school. "I'm very happy to be in the Guinness World Records! A lot of people have to do a lot to get in," she said. "All I did was answer a few questions and then they gave it to me."



I think the questions were:

1. Are you hairy?
2. Are you pre-pubescent?
3. Is your self-esteem so healthy that grown women wanna be you?

I wonder if she's got a hip buddy named Styles who lets her surf on the hood of his van.

There's also another one about how to get through weddings as the single, my-life's-not-remotely-together-enough-to-even-begin-to-dream-about-such-a-thing friend, but I'll save that for next week.

Have a good weekend!

xoxo,

blacktress!

The Children Are Our Future

Hey Gang, What do you think of the redesign? I was getting sick and tired of the blah background, so I decided to change it up--thoughts?

Monday night I met with a publicist to discuss ways to take the blacktress to the next level. She was a very Earth Mother, actualize-your-potential Jewess, and I kinda have a friend crush (and not just because she met with me free of charge). She said a lot of things that were good, but mostly it was about experimenting and tracking changes. She advised that I try different things, but don't just disregard the results--really look at them and write them down. Like, if I do a show in BK, how many referrals do I get? What's kind of response do I get when I host versus doing a short set? How does blogging drive traffic to www.YouTube.com/BlacktressComedy? Only by looking at the results will I get a game plan, be able to set realistic goals, and measure success.

It may sound obvious, but when it takes all my strength to make myself wash the damn dishes, there's no suggestion that's too small. So, in the spirit of experimenting and tracking changes, I'm setting up a blogging schedule--even when I don't feel funny, or feel too busy, or don't want to risk losing my job because I'm being inappropriate, I am going to put up a post every other day. So it begins...

Luckily, I've got something to work with. Yesterday I went to my old high school to meet with an admin about becoming a tutor (blacktress needs to get a well-paying side hustle, and nothing says 'cash-in-hand' like Upper East Side private school tutoring). I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but my private schooling on the UES began when I was a mere 10 years old, and began what would become a lifetime of studies INSIDE CAUCASIA. It wasn't just hard being bigger and blacker than everyone else, but I didn't have a nanny or a kate spade bag AND I wore a size medium (which made me an object of ridicule--I kid you not). Within the first semester I quickly learned that I had to get really funny really fast, and I wouldn't be dating anyone until college, if ever.
I think it could have been when a girl said to me on the first day of music class, "if you don't stop being the little bitch you are, you're never going to make friends here."
If by "bitch" she meant "painfully shy," then I guess she was right.

Needless to say, as I made my way up Park Avenue yesterday, I felt a bit awkward (and really old). By the time I got to the administrator's office, I had an eating disorder. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear Lady Gaga playing--ah, the freedom of private schooling. I saw a poster on the wall advertising the UJIMA* club, which spearheaded the Kenya Project.
Where was UJIMA when I was a lass?! I could have used some inspiration and outreach!
My memories are quieted by a sudden stampede of children flooded into the stairwell, and I started to making my scared noise (which sounds a lot like this:

They were just so full of energy and life--I couldn't take it.

Our meeting was brief, but I'm hopeful that something will come of it--even though it might not happen until the fall.

I went upstairs to visit a teacher (the one whose son has been deeply influenced by a blacktress), and the next thing I know, she's playing my YouTube for everyone in the history department. Students desperately trying to learn couldn't help but listen in.
"Does this have profanity in it?" one boy asked.
"Dude, I'm dropping F-bombs like Hiroshima and Nagasaki!"
I think it was the term "wintercourse" that made him leave the room.

It was kind of surreal to sit in a room where I used to have nervous breakdowns about Robespierre and have people watching my stand-up. It was even more surreal when one of the teaching fellows (a young black woman who went to Dartmouth and can handle Sojourner's Truths) asked me if I'd be interested in being a mentor to a current student.

There is nothing I want more to help another young, gifted, and black mind traverse the treacherous land of CAUCASIA. I told her to give me someone who was really cool, and who needed to be empowered. I'm already getting together a reading list, which so far includes Audre Lorde, bell hooks, and June Jordan.

Just think of it, guys--we'll sit around, braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. I'll rent The Women of Brewster Place and show her our history. It'll be, like, the ultimate safe space!

In other news: Anybody got a job for me that'll pay real money AND give me the flexibility to live my dreams?



*Every time I type "Ujima", both Microsoft Word and Blogger suggest I change it to JEMIMA. Is the Microsoft Office Suite racist???

Scream 5?

This Friday is the premiere of Scream 4, the fourth installment of Wes Craven’s self-reflexive meta-horror franchise that gave Neve Campbell a reason to dream after Po5 got canceled (and inspired the creepy mismatched romance between Courtney Cox and David Arquette).

When I saw the trailer for the first time, I thought it was one of those SNL parodies, and had a good ol’ chuckle. When I saw the subway posters, I kind of threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Guys, the last Scream movie came out in 2000! 11 years ago! I know you gotta space things out to avoid overload ), but this is a bit ridiculous. The first film came out in 1996; the second appeared in 1997. Scream 3 came out in 2000, and even that was pushing it (a movie about the making of a movie based on the events of a previous movie?—Kevin Williamson, get over yourself). And now, 11 years later, they're coming back with the same look like the dude at your high school reunion who you used to think was hot and is still wearing his letter jacket--it's sad. For those of you who didn't go to suburban high school, think of it this way: it's like a baby whose parents call it "our little surprise," when they really want to call it an “IUD fail”.

Guys, the last film in the series came out before 9/11. The climate has changed, the world in which Sidney Prescott was born is not the same world that wants her back.

Don’t get me wrong—I loved me some Scream. That Matthew Lillard was a real hottie (what happened to him?), and Rose McGowan’s desperate attempt to avoid death through a doggy door left me riveted. But that was in 1996, when Dawson’s Creek provided a guide to living, and prayed each night that my braces would come off early. Besides, isn’t Neve Campbell, much like retirement-ready Detective Murtaugh, getting too old for this shit?

At this rate, what would Scream 5 be like?

I’m glad you asked! Here’s a treatment I’m working on. (Rumor has it Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven are in a feud, so I’m hoping to strike while the irons aren’t speaking to each other!)

The year is 2034

A bloated Sidney Prescott, now 57 years old, sits in boardroom with a lawyer by her side, facing her soon-to-be ex-husband (played by a haggard Pierce Brosnan). He and his counsel whisper quietly. Sidney takes a sip from a tumbler of gin. Her skin is wrinkly, sallow, and her teeth are yellowed from years of nicotine. James Beekman, her husband’s attorney, demands millions of dollars (which Sidney earned speaking at women’s shelters around the world), citing his wife’s emotional torment throughout their marriage. Sidney’s never been able to really love a man—and she’s never been able to sit in a movie theater or stand near a window after dark. Loving her was—at first—easy cause she was beautiful, and then it became impossible because she was crazy.

Sidney and her lawyer exchange a look. As she prepares to speak, a cellphone on the table vibrates, causing her to seize in terror. Sidney becomes a whirling dervish, all fists and elbows, attacking everyone in sight. She looks down at the bloodied bodies left on the boardroom floor. She grabs a phone and dials a number from memory.

“Gale, it’s me, Sid. I need you, baby.”

Cut to the exterior of the building. Gale Weathers drives up in a minivan, and flings her skeletal legs out of the vehicle. She hobbles over to Sidney, who’s chain smoking by a potted fern. She runs to Gale and hugs her tight, with class Neve Campbell tears streaming down her face, and her upper lip all snotty.

“It’s okay,” Gale whispers. “It’s okay.”

Prepare to Have Your Mind BLOWN

Hey friends,

You know how I like to keep some white men in my corner, just in case these monkey moms try to bring back slavery. Well, it would seem that many of my back-up freedom fighters have actually learned a thing or two from the blacktress. Case in point: the music video below. I got this straight from the producer, y'all! He's a southern ginger with a Jewish sensibility, and the only heterosexual male friend I've never made out with. And now, with the production of this video, he has made a blacktress proud...



For those of you who are not familiar, Big Freedia is a leader in the "bounce" scene--a genre of hip hop developed in New Orleans.
Perhaps Lafayette from True Blood isn't quite so fictional after all. (Which I hope is true, because I think he is the greatest character--and Nelsan Ellis, the finest blacktor--of our time.)


LOVE HIM!

When my Confederate friend told me he'd moved to N'awlins, I was a bit wary at first, wondering if he was just trying to bed vulnerable brown women with the line, "Hey girl, are your levees still broken???" and call it "working for habitat for humanity." But he's actually being of service and getting his filmmaking on with reputable talent. Guys, this music is so real, the New York Times even wrote about it! I am kind of obsessed, and my only regret is that JJSiii hadn't alerted me to this sensation sooner.

When I asked him how on earth he got involved in this gender-bending rap world, he looked at me with his head held high and his back straight as an arrow and said:

"I said to myself, Michael Gottwald, you can't come home to your family for Christmas in Virginia with your head held high unless you can say with confidence, Mom and Dad, I produced a heavily psychedelic music video about an 80-foot transgendered African-American queer man demanding that small white folks, spandex-clad black folks, and Max Goldblatt dance to a sexually explicit, New Orleans strain of hip hop called 'bounce' in the only way the genre allows: by shaking their ass with tremendous vigor.

Also, Freedia was all like 'Where the downtown at?' and i was like, Here!, HERE Freedia! Here I am! Let me produce a video for you!"

Bless his cotton socks!

A Dream Deferred--And Decoded

Have I told you guys about how I have reality-nightmares? As KWalsh can attest, my most frightening dreamscapes don’t involved faceless killers, falling into an abyss, or snakes on a plane. I often wake up hyperventilating over things that could very likely happen, but the timeline’s a bit off. Take, for instance, last night’s nachtmare:

I was at home with my mother, and the house looked the way it did before she moved out (you know, furnished), but she was just visiting. She’d spent the night, and we were watching TV. Just then, I look at my Google Calendar (yes, Google even invades my dreams) and realize that at 7pm I've gotta go perform the role of Puck in a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”—and I totally don’t know my lines!

I remember that we’d done the show a month ago, and even then I was shaky (which was a callback to a dream I had last week, in which I was in a play—that took place in my high school auditorium—and didn’t know any of my cues or lines. How the hell is my subconscious getting self-referential?). My mom had asked me if I wanted to go shopping, and I said I couldn’t because I needed to learn the lines—and I needed to print out the script, cause I couldn't find it! I’m in a frenzy, as I figure out how to get it printed, and somehow, my mom prints it in her old office which no longer exists. I sit down to start reading and ask her to help me when she heads for the door. She says she’s going shopping and has no patience for running lines. I get angry and whiny, like a toddler, saying, “Please, help me. I’m sorry I can’t go shopping and I completely forgot about this and I need help. You’re not even coming to see me? No one’s coming, not [Jewboo], not you. Why doesn’t anyone love me or want to support me???”

I wake up, not shaken as much as depressed. Guys, I really just feel like I’m….always stuck in second gear, like it hasn’t been my day, my week, my month, or even my year—you know? I don’t know what to make of the random dream, so let’s go to the good ol’ Dream Dictionary to get some answers.

To dream that you are reading Shakespeare, signifies your literary aptitude. You are well-read and knowledgeable. Consider which Shakespeare novel you are reading and how the plot line may parallel a situation in your waking life.

Um, I’m not reading any Shakespeare right now. I'm already a bit wary of their misuse of a comma, but let’s see what a dream about a script means:

To read or write a script in your dream, signifies the character or persona that you portray in your waking life. The dream is telling you that you have power to control the direction and path of your own life.

What if I don’t know any of the lines of my script? According to this logic, it means I don’t have the power to control the direction and path of my own life!!!!

Hm....that is pretty much the problem. These kids are good. Being a blacktress, I have to look up what “theater” represents:

To dream that you are in a theater, signifies your social life. Consider how the performance parallels to situations in your waking life. Observe how the characters relate to you and how they may represent an aspect of yourself. You may be taking on a new role. Alternatively, the dream is a metaphor that you are being too theatrical or too melodramatic. Are you being a dream queen?
They may be on to something. However, they have nothing under the heading of “performing,” yet they do have an entry on “Pepperoni”:
To see or eat pepperoni in your dream, indicates that you need to add a little pizzazz and spice to your life. Alternatively, it denotes wholeness and completeness.

Okay, this DreamMoods.com ain’t makin’ a lick of sense, as my G-unit would say. Do I need to add pizzazz or am I whole and complete? Am I being followed and manipulated by a fairy king? Oberon, is that you?????

I don’t know what’s up, guys—one minute Everything’s Coming Up Blacktress, and the next minute my own boyfriend can’t make it to my show, my mom tells me she Googled me yet again and “found nothing bad, like last time. You did what I told you to do, great”, and as soon as I walked in the office, my coworker greeted me with “you had an interview this morning, didn’t you?” just because I’m dressed slightly above average.

For the record, I didn’t have an interview, and am only dressed this way because I’ll be attending a watercolor organization’s reception tonight (blacktress + geriatrics = awkward times and racial slurs).

How y’all been?