You Can Find Me in Da (Country) Club

*******Breaking Blacktress News******

October 22, I’ll be heading to New Hampshire to do a show with 5 Funny Females--and I’ll be making more money than I’ll have to spend getting there!

I'll also have a 20-minute set--plenty of time to do my best blackting and comedic stylings. It's very exciting but also a touch nerve-wracking—the show is in New Hampshire, y’all. At a country club.

Yes, a country club.

You know a blacktress gets uneasy when traveling through the Caucasian countryside, but when I’m on a veritable Northern plantation—and so recently after the release of The Help, no less—it becomes even more touch and go. What if they force me to teach them what it means to really love, or how to sing with emotion? I immediately reached out to the other NYC comic who's booked, asking if we could carpool. She's from Boston and knows how to traverse these lands. (I've found that, when traveling into unknown parts of Caucasia, it helps to bring your own blondtourage to help with translation and such.)

The lineup includes a lesbian, an Asian woman, and a blacktress, so I’m not exactly expecting the RNC, but seeing as it’s at a country club and people are spending $55 for dinner and a show, I can’t really count my chickens.

I should probably keep a lid on the whole “gentrifying the vag” thing, though.

This is really good news after the start to a rough week. Tuesday I went to the dentist for a cleaning, only to find out that I have not one, not two, but four cavities!!! And this, after the hygienist tells me the cost of my cleaning and exam is double what they said it was (she got her facts wrong). WTF?!

I floss diligently—even in a blackout! (I’ve seen evidence of my strict oral hygiene the next morning, floss strewn about like yarn ravaged by kittens.) How did this happen?

I guess trying to dodge orthodontic bills by making my retainer out of Laffy Taffy wasn’t as smart as I thought.

The cavities themselves don’t stress me out as much as the cost of them. The doc says it’ll be $200 - $300 for each filling.
Remember how last week I was depressed about not being able to fund my dreams? Well, now, I can’t even fund my own oral health!

The only way I can swing this is to do one filling per month until I’m all done.
Y’all, I am basically putting my teeth on layaway!

Um, did I or did I not get a degree? Do I or do I not direct the editorial for a national magazine? (ok, it’s probably only read by 12 people, but still—you can find it in any bookstore that hasn’t gone bankrupt!)
HOW CAN I NOT AFFORD MY TEETH????

Add to this the bills from my near-terminal-illness, and I’m actually going to have to file Chapter 11. Or, like, Chapter 9—close to bankruptcy, but not quite.

Okay, I know I’m, like, 40 years behind, but what the hell is the point of insurance? I don’t think I should have to pay for any services unless they find and treat whatever it is ails me. I mean, if I get into your radioactive tube and you don’t find anything, then why should I give you half my paycheck? If I get in your radioactive tube and you find cancer or a tumor and can’t actually cure me, why should my surviving relatives pay you? I mean, clearly, you’ve failed them. It’s just like camping—why go outside and pretend to be poor? United Healthcare, why must I pay you for: (1) making me think I’m going to die; (2) accepting a doctor’s suggestion that she do a minimally invasive and simple test [that actually costs hundreds of dollars.]; (3) telling me that I’m actually in good health, or in a state that no one can really do anything about? It seems that I’m right where I left off, only with a damn neti pot and some supplements.

Ok, that’s enough from me. The money from this gig can go to half a filling!
How are you guys? Leave a comment with a word or phrase, and I’ll use it to write today’s sketch—seriously!

It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure blog!

Hey guys,

So, inspired by the one comment and several gchat messages, I have fleshed out the Chris Hansen sketch. I think it captures Hansen's essence--what do you think?

"A Lunch Date With Chris Hansen"

[NATE--a 40-something man who looks like a middle-school chemistry teacher in the 1980s--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. He sends a text on his phone and closes it.

A YOUNG FEMALE SERVER approaches. She wears her hair in a ponytail and is all smiles.]

Waitress: Hello, sir, how are you this afternoon? Can I get you anything to drink while you’re... waiting for someone?
Nate: Yes, I'm meeting a friend. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I by any chance interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [offstage]: I'll be right out! I just have to change first!
Nate: What?

[CHRIS HANSEN enters, in his signature button-down-and-blazer combo. He holds several sheets of paper in his hand. NATE rises to greet him.]

Nate: Hey Chris. Long time, no see, huh? [He leans in to give him a hug.]
Chris [stiff]: Hey there, good to see you.
Nate: Sit down, man--you're making me anxious. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes…I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, are you fucking serious?
Chris [reading in his wonderful staccato]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s around 1ish on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?

Nate: Um…that I wanted to get together.
Chris: So when I wrote back, "Great." what did you think I meant by that?
Nate: That it was great?
Chris: Did you or did you not just send me a text message moments ago, saying, "I'm starved. Are you stuck in traffic?"
Nate: Yes
Chris: Are you always this demanding with your lunch companions?
Nate: I wouldn't call it "demanding," but no, I'm not--
Chris: So, this is the first time? I find that a bit hard to believe.
[Nate says nothing.]
Chris: Did you know think you were communicating with a 14-year-old girl?
Nate: No! I have limited time for lunch, and I wanted to make sure we were on, that's all.

[Cut to CHRIS HANSEN IN THE 'DATELINE' STUDIO, surrounded by television screens. He looks at an unknown person.]

Chris: Here's this adult male...I mean, he's nearly 50 years old. And he's texting me. To "hurry up" when I haven’t seen him in six years. Six years. A chance encounter. At a reunion. And he's nagging me. As though he's entitled to me. That’s just inappropriate, any way you look at it.

[Cut back to the restaurant interior.]

Chris: one-ish.
Nate: Yeah--
Chris: one-ish.
Nate: Yes.
Chris: You will agree that "one-ish" was the predetermined time?
Nate: Yes.
Chris: You want to try again?
Nate: What? What do you mean, 'try again?' I said yes.
Chris: Well, I have the transcript right here.
Nate: Jesus Christ, Hansen! Chill out, you're off the clock!
Chris: This morning, at 9:07 am, I wrote, "I'll be running a bit late. Let's make it 1:30 just to be safe."
Nate: What are you talking about? I never got an email.
Chris: You sure?
Nate: Yes
Chris: You want to try again?

[Nate pulls out his smartphone, scrolling furiously through his email. He hands it to Chris Hansen.]

Nate: Look for yourself. Go ahead, check the trash folder. You didn't send it.

[Chris Hansen looks through the phone. He takes out his own phone and scrolls through it. He shows a flicker of embarrassment.]

Chris: It would seem that the message I thought I'd sent was actually simply a draft.

[Cut back to CHRIS HANSEN IN THE 'DATELINE' STUDIO, surrounded by television screens. He looks at an unknown person.]

Chris: Sometimes, you just can't catch 'em all. But we're not going to let that stop us at "Dateline."

National Sketch/Blog/Monologue Writing Month-- Or, as I like to call it, Time to Get It Together

Happy Tuesday!

God, isn’t it great when you don’t have to be on the plantation five whole days?

I don’t even know what to blog about. My head’s in a fog and I’m waiting for my coffee to take effect. I think what I’ll do is share some of my works in progress.

So, September is National Sketch Writing Month, which challenges the gifted-yet-unmotivated to write 30 sketches in 30 days. I’m not really a sketch writer, but I've decided to co-opt this idea in order to start writing that solo show I’ve been talking about—and get back on track with the blog posts.
Unfortunately, today is the 6th and I’ve only written one sketch, which doesn’t bode well for my attempts to live my dreams, but I’m not gonna give up yet!

Here are some of the ideas I’m working on. Let me know your thoughts. Whatever gets the most positive response will be tomorrow’s post.

The Sista Wife
Logline: Regine marries into a polygamist family and teaches her fellow sister wives how to be strong black women. (already in progress)

Sad Girl Goes to Prom
Logline: We see Sad Girl standing in front of her mirror, giving herself a pep talk before heading out to her high school prom without a date.

The Dead of Night
Logline: We see what would have happened to Bella Swan if she and Edward had broken up or if she’d just aged like a regular human.

MoveOn.org
Logline: A lone woman shows up to a MoveOn.org rally and gets the address wrong. No one’s there and she loses her mind. “Why does no one like me???”

Chris Hansen in His Daily Life
Logline: We see Chris Hansen meeting up with a friend for lunch. He shows up late and follows the same protocol as he would if he were catching a predator.

For example:
[Nate--40-something, kinda overweight White guy--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. A young female waiter approaches.]

Waitress: Hello. Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting?
Nate: Um, sure. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [off stage]: I'll be right out. I'm just going to change.
Nate: What?
[Chris Hansen enters.]
Nate: Hey Chris. [He rises to give Chris a hug.]
Chris [stiffens, not wanting to be touched.]: Hello. Are you ready to eat?
Nate: Sure—just gotta get the menus first. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes….I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, come on.
Chris [reading]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s at 1pm on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?
Nate: Um….that I wanted to get together.

And so on and so forth…

Hope you had a good weekend!

xoxo,

Blacktress!

What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

Strappin' in for the Weekend

Guys, there's a hurricane a-coming to New York City.
We had an earthquake about three days ago.
Um, WTF, End of Days? Can you please not come until I've had a chance to live my dreams?

I hope it's just a thunderstorm, and not the dramatic hurricane their expecting. I mean, her name is Irene, for goodness sake--nothing named Irene should be dangerous.

[Imagine me as a 55-year-old secretary when you read this next sentence.] Besides, the only hurricane I want is Denzel! [insert a pursing of the lips and a snap.]

As I prepare to tuck in for what's sure to be "THE STORM OF THE CENTURY," I realize how useless I am in an emergency. I mean, this is nothing new, but it became even more apparent after visiting the VT and then reading The Hunger Games this week. But now, in the face of a real situation of the non-Jersey variety, I realize I'm as useless as a taco in a toolkit.^

According to NY1 News, I need to pack a "go bag". All I know about "go bags" are that the FBI agents on Criminal Minds always have one ready before boarding the plane to the next serial-killer case.
I don't have a gun or badge, so what would my go bad contain besides underwear and a safety condom?

As I try to write a grocery list of edible foods I won't have to cook or refrigerate*, I hear the wise words of my 95-year-old G-Unit, said before what was certain to be the Y2K meltdown:

In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo ass.

Let me give a bit of context:
Grandma has an entire linen closet filled with toilet paper--except on the floor of the closet, where she has jugs of water.
When I asked her why she had all this, she replied matter-of-factly with, "Thems my rations."

Okay.

Water, I get. But all that tp? Unless you're some sort of macGuyver, you really won't need that many thin squares of tissue during an apocalypse.

Unless you're G-Unit.

Maybe I should go load up on Charmin--I mean, the woman has lasted 95 years on this earth, so she must know something. (Plus, those cartoon bears are so cute!). What about Smart Water? I mean, if the world's going to turn into Thunderdome, I want whatever the ageless Jennifer Aniston's been drinking. That one's got the hips of a 14-year-old Korean gymnast!

Ugh, I wish I was Katniss Everdeen. I'm gonna try to make a shiv out of a plastic spoon in the next hour.

I need survival skills. Is there a way to do, like, a SIMS version of Outward Bound?

^I've decided to try on the character of elderly southern farmer. This is one of my new folksy sayings.

*so far, all I got is:

• Wheat Thins
• apples
• dry cereal
• English muffins
• tea (not a food)
• chips and salsa?
• fruit leather
• peanut butter
• craisins

My Soulmate?

Hey gang,

So, I was in war-torn Borders last night, picking up some cheap going-out-of-business books, and as I'm checking the humor section, this guy walks behind me and all I hear is the word 'gorgeous.'
I assume he's talking about the sale, cause it really is exciting.
I look up but he's already walked past me. I go back to my book, and he doubles back. "Excuse me,” he says in his indoor voice. “I'm looking for a nice soulmate. My name is Rob, I've been divorced a few years—“
“I'm in a relationship,” I cut him off.

He wasn’t hideous or visibly homeless—black guy, a couple inches shorter than me, bald but working it—but he definitely had crazy eyes (almost Bradley Cooper-esque) that tipped me off to mental illness. Add to that the fact that he called me gorgeous, when I looked about as busted as a sister wife. In fact, I was looking like a divorced sister wife—you know, what I mean. She's got her 6 kids and no “sisters” to help her, so she's really let herself go. Plus, the last time she was on a date, head-to-toe denim was a good look, so even on her best day she's still looking awkward.

I digress.

“Oh, you’re in a relationship right now?” CrazyEyes says, pointing to the floor. He then looks around, as though my partner--if he exists--would be in Borders at that very moment.
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay, I’m sorry.” He walks away, probably to troll the going-out-of-business sale for more “nice soulmates” at 50% off.


I tell this story not just because I love to share interactions with randoms but also because it was the first time I didn’t have to lie to a crazy to make him go away. My fake boyfriend, Michael, is no longer necessary—and he might be gone for good! (I think I’ll kill him in a freak ATV accident—you know, cause he’s such an adrenaline junkie.)


Jewboo and I did very well on our first road trip. By “very well,” I mean we didn’t fight with each other, explained our wants and needs (such as “food. Right. Now.”) clearly and succinctly, and my friends liked him. He drove the entire way there and back (which I found very attractive for some reason) and we both discovered that we prefer to hold our bladders than stop repeatedly.


****[oh my god, we just had an earthquake in New York City. My office swayed, and massa was conveniently out getting cupcakes and “didn’t feel a thing.” I started a twitter tree, and judging by the pithy replies, everyone’s fine. Guys, what if this blog becomes a record of humanity in the 21st century????? I owe it to the world. I owe it to the Mayans. I owe it to us.]********

The wedding was loverly and it was so great to see friends. However, I seemed to have forgotten about my inherent distaste for small-town living--i.e. life in Vermont. For a place I’ve visited more than a handful of times, it really is the polar opposite of everything I stand for.

Take, for instance, the fact that we arrived in the state at 9pm on Friday night, and there were hardly any restaurants open. We get to the hotel at 9:45, only to discover that restaurant-kitchens across the state are closing, including the hotel dining room. I’m sorry, but WTF, VT?! I know you guys are "quaint" and sparsely populated, but a blacktress and a ‘boo can’t get a good meal after sunset on a weekend?! The state needs to change it’s damn motto:



As we're driving up I look over the info from the bride and remember that a VT wedding also doubles as a camping trip. Regarding the pre-wedding BBQ at a gorgeous state park, she writes:

“Limited parking is available at the top of the mountain, so you can park at the bottom and carpool up, or it’s a nice one-hour hike to the top.”

A what? Nice one hour hike? Is that Swedish for "refreshing hot bath"? I texted some friends immediately:
You better save me a parking space on the mountain top or get me a ski lift, cause a hike ain't happening!

I would have had Jewboo playing sherpa after about 10 feet.

You guys know how I don’t like to sweat in public or be in nature, right?

Well, just imagine me at an outdoor wedding at the height of the summer sun. Just walking from the car has me starting to sweat like Whitney, and after sitting down for about 5 minutes, I have to pull my dress out from under my butt because I’m getting serious swamp ass and I’ll kill myself if I stand up and discover a giant sweat stain in my crotchal region. When the B&G proceed to share their written vows, I start crying, and Jewboo leans over and wipes my tears…or sweat…it was really at the point where it all mingled and I was generally salty.

But the sun went down after a couple of hours and in the meantime, I got really excited about the mushroom-and-truffle brick oven pizza being passed around, and it definitely took the edge off. I will say this about Vermonters--they sure know how to throw a wedding. I think it's because they're such a handy people. I was seated next to a fella by the name of Bruce, who had a weird look in his eye and a wet spot on his pants, and I asked him what he did.

"Do you live off of the land?" I asked.

"Well, yes, I do. I build furniture from the trees right from our forests."

Guys, if the apocalypse goes down, I think Vermont's going to be the only US city that makes it.

The highlight of the wedding was definitely the couple's first dance, which was unlike anything I've ever seen. It was, in essence, a flash mob. Kool & The Gang's hit "Celebration" came on and half the guests started doing a choreographed dance!

I had no idea what was going on as folks danced around me. I felt like Julia Stiles did the first time she went into that black club in Save the Last Dance.

Turns out the b&g had set this up via secret YouTube video. Although I wasn't in on it ("It was a hard choice to make," she said, "but I decided that I wanted you to be surprised."), I was able to get my hands on the instructional video made by the bride. I also got her permission to post this on the blog. Her exact words were:

"No, it's okay. I've never been more proud of anything in my life."

And I'd have to agree.

See for yourself, friends. From the seriousness and dramatic pauses in her delivery to the names for the various dance moves--not to mention the cameo by their dog--this might actually be the most amazing YouTube clip I've ever seen. Yes, even better than the Pumpkin Dance.

I love this woman almost as much as I love my Jewboo. I would gladly drive another 7 hours just to see her dance.

Vermont is for Lovers

Hey friends!

I’m banging my head against the wall with this article for massa, so I decided I’d switch to blog mode. The artist I’m writing about isn’t weird or crazy or unskilled, so I don’t know why this is so hard. In fact, he’s a silver fox who gets my humor and actually used the word “shit-tastic” in an email, which makes him my new favorite person. I just can’t get a lead-in, and without a running start, it’s just a dragging, lagging article. Plus, I’m only half here because I slept about 5 hours and am going out of town tomorrow—to a wedding!

Jewboo and I are heading up to Vermont to witness the nuptials of one of my favorite ladies. I’m really nervous-excited (nerv-cited? excitervous?)—it’s our first road trip, Jewboo’s driving my mom’s car, and he’ll be meeting a bunch of college friends. We did great in Minnesota, so I’m not worried about the friends-meeting part or spending 6 hours in a car together, but the driving….to Vermont… in madukes’s car. What if my map-dyslexia flares up and we get lost and he hates me? What if I get diarrhea? What if one of us farts in the car when the windows are up????

I am very excited for the nuptials, though. It’s not going to be another German-Indian dual-ceremony at an inter-faith cultural center, but you only get one of those a lifetime. The bride-to-be and I really took our love-friendship to the next level post-college, with the advent of this blog (specifically “16 & Pregnant” posts) and collaboration on a bachelorette party. She was really good about making me feel like less of a failure throughout the whole thing, and her scrappy, Vermonter, can-do attitude really came in handy on a rainy, late-night drive during which I thought we’d end up inspiring the next Saw movie.* She’s the kinda gal you’d want to get stuck in an elevator—or a sinking car, or a tornado, or a zombie apocalypse—with. Besides, it’s always great to watch white people come together. I feel like their numbers are dwindling.

Overall, I’m excited to get outta the city, breathe in some country air (and then develop a hacking cough as my body rejects it), and spend 48 hours with my Jewboo.
Yes, this pleases me. It’s hard being in an LDR, Brooklyn-to-Harlem style!

Of course, I’ll give you a wedding recap when I return. I think that after the wedding goes off without a hitch and everyone’s happy, I can write about my experiences being in nature without being misconstrued as hateful.


* Not sure which is scarier—inspiring it or being alive to see the release of a 6th Saw film.

A Treatise Inspired by Adam Carolla

Okay, let me say this: I have never liked Adam Carolla. I find his nasal voice to be annoying and even when he was giving “sex advice” on MTV’s Loveline he sounded cocky and dismissive. That being said, perhaps he isn’t a bad comedian. Although he’s damn near 50 years old, he’s got a teenaged-frat-boy sense of humor that appeals to many….teenaged frat boys.

However, his recent homophobic, anti-trans (and anti-Asian?) tirade on his podcast The Adam Carolla Show —one of the most downloaded podcasts in the country—has confirmed every negative assumption I’ve ever made about theman

Have a listen:


Okay, it’s gross, we know. It’s also par for the Carolla course, it seems. What makes me so angry about it is his “apology”—issued via Twitter, no less. Because after all, why would you need more than 140 characters to say sorry about something you’re not actually sorry about?
“I’m sorry my comments were hurtful. That being said, I’m a comedian, not a politician.”

Now, as you may know, the blacktress has also come under fire for comments made via blog and on stage. I have been misinterpreted in some instances and in others, it simply hurt the listener to hear my dramatized/performance-level anger and/or musings. Both of these are par for the course in comedy and any other form of public expression. You cannot control how someone’s brain transforms information. And, thanks to the internet, you can’t control how someone receives information.

But that doesn’t mean that comedians aren’t accountable. When a comic responds to criticism with the phrase “it’s just a joke,” or “I’m not a politician,” it implies that there’s no intention behind his or her words. And honestly, any comic who has actually worked to achieve a certain level of success/public recognition has spent years going through shitty open mics; has spent their days reading—or writing—books titled Truth in Comedy and The Comedy Bible and Comedy Writing Secrets; and making national recognition a life goal. In short: every word he writes or says in a comedic context isn’t “just a joke”. If you want to be a joke-maker, then perhaps you shouldn’t address issues of same-sex marriage, equal rights for people of all creed, religion, or gender on a public platform.

Point the third: There is a difference between a rant (Carolla’s tirade) and a bit (a comedian’s crafted joke on a particular topic). Of course, talking off the cuff/not in the context of a stand-up set or sketch, not everything is going to have beats, patterns, word play, or LOL moments. But a bit is a routine on a given topic. It takes an idea and mines it in a way that is humorous.
A rant is “speaking or shouting at length in a loud of impassioned way.”
That’s what Carolla did--in this case, about the LGBTQ community as a whole.

Yes, there can be ranting bits—Carlin and the like—but it’s usually the way they process and explain their rage (i.e.their unique and offbeat thinking”) that provides humor.
Carolla just went off.
And, constitutionally, he’s allowed to do so. But did he really have to spend 7 minutes on it?

Guys, this is coming from a self-proclaimed mad blacktress. I have definitely utilized the guise of Sojourner to say things that people didn’t like to hear. And of course, there is truth in comedy, and although there is dramatization for effect or performance, there is a true root sometimes. But does he really have to use being a “comedian” as a pass to be a total bigot?

Oh yeah, and regarding this whole “comedian” thing—his rant wasn’t remotely funny, so he seems to have failed on that end, too.

What say you?

Love/Sad

Happy Monday, guys! I love when "Mondays With Artists" just happens naturally. My boss handed me a letter from a reader, and this post basically writes itself! It's an excellent example of our target audience: handwritten in shaky cursive and and somewhat confrontational while also being self-promoting. As always, the grammar and spelling has been transcribed exactly as it appears in the original.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe 80% or more people you have sent this same letter to will probably die before our prescription expires.

[By "prescription," she means "subscription." This is a common mistake among our audience.]

I am 90 years old. I'm probably the youngest 90 year old person you'll ever know or meet. Still I might die tomorrow, I don't have much time left. or next week or next month or next year. However, I'm a great inspiration to many people. I'm still going strong. If you don't believe me--look me up on inter-net. I'm all over the place!

[This is the most confident/depressing paragraph I've ever read.]

If you are interested I will do a story on myself. It will make good reading. People can find out what makes me "tick."

[Um, what makes her "tick"? Like Ke$ha?]

To be an artist you don't have to be an actor, writer, or musician--just a desire.

[I mean, I guess technically she's not wrong there. You don't have to be a singer to be a painter!]

I've been teaching since 1970--and I still do.

Please don't send me anymore bills until my subscription bill is due.

Sincerely,

[old lady name]

The thing is, guys, her paintings aren't half bad. I kinda want to call her.

Back Back from Cali Cali

[ok, guys, I have to be honest. I have been working on this post for about 3 days. I still don't have all of the vids and embeds I'd hoped, but this is getting ri-goddamn-diculous, so let's just put it up.]

Hey friends!

I really should have blogged by now, since I got back on Monday afternoon and all, but I’ve been so tired that even typing is a Sisyphean task. I got back to the plantation Tuesday and am just coming up for air. It’s amazing how three little hours can impact one’s cycle—no, I don’t mean menstrual. I wasn’t able to sleep until my last night in SF, and since coming home I’ve been up all night like an unemployed stoner with a penchant for QVC. I’m going to power through today, though, and hope to hit the hay at a respectable hour tonight.

Anyway, San Francisco was fun! I forgot that I have friends who don’t do comedy/aren’t self-involved and actually want to learn things. I've known a lot of them since before 9/11, so we've really been through a lot. These same friends are also willing to pay to see a blacktress perform and give her a bed to sleep in, which is even more tender. (Microsoft Word is telling me that I should change that to ‘tenderer’ but I just think that sounds too awkward and I won’t dignify it with a spell check.)

I was beyond nervous on Friday, primarily because I was the opening act, but that set was way better than Saturday's. I wasn't awful, mind you, but not as high energy and focused as usual.
But enough about the awkwardness--let's talk about the amazingness.
There were so many funny female comics and it was great to befriend and network. I have come home with several friend crushes, and I'm trying to reign in the internet stalking. One such victim is Chris Burns, a HILARIOUS stand-up and actor from SF. She's a social worker by day, and she speaks truth to power. Showtime won't let me embed it, but you really should check out this clip of her as the social worker on a recent episode of Shameless

I also got to feel really useful by sitting down with the PhD candidate. It was cool to talk about comedy in a serious way and it also got me thinking about what I hope to do. Granted, there were a lot of awkward 'ums' and grasping at straws as I tried to codify something I pretend to do effortlessly. But mostly, it was just great to sit down and talk with a black lesbian who didn't hate me. She asked a few questions that I was able to answer with rapid-fire precision, though, such as:

Who would you compare yourself to, as a comic?

If Kathy Griffin and Chris Rock hate-fucked and she carried the baby to term, that'd be me.

What's your target audience?

18-65, liberal, savvy, educated, and gay.

Do you think a black audience would like your stand-up?

Um......

We totally got along and talked about Jewboos! It's always good to know I'm not the only one miscgenating.*

After meeting up with her, I appeared on a radio show.

Yes, real radio.

Well, ok, it's free radio, but still--people listen to it.

The show was called "The Edge of Insanity," and they were not exaggerating. I had sent an inquiry in advance, just looking to maximize my SF time, and was surprised to get a response. I was even more surprised to find out that the show's host/producer was going to be working the door at the Friday night show. He'd get a chance to see my act and know if I was truly on "the edge."

Obvs, I was. I talked about gentrifying vaginas and how I don't want children. Clearly he was ready for me.

Turned out I'd just gotten myself on the set of Revenge of the Nerds VII: Half-Baked Nerds With Children. It was me and four stoned dudes sitting in a smoky room and shooting the shit. The co-host was this middle-aged black dude--I'd call him the Robin to the producer's Howard Stern, but he was nowhere near as classy as Robin. The entire time he made sexual comments about me and it just got gross--especially when we weren't on the air. For example, when I was alerted to the potential lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, he responded with:

"Girl, if you need help wipin' yo' ass, just let me know. My tongue has been all kinds of places."

Was that supposed to turn me on or clue me in to his mouth syphillis?

It definitely got "to catch a predator-y"and I wished I'd had Chris Hansen in my phonebook. Instead, I had to alert my elite gay visionary:

If you don't hear from me by 6:05pm PST, call the po-po. I've been sex trafficked.

You can listen to the madness here.

There was a call-in number, but it seems the only people who called were friends of the show. One of whom was an elderly woman named "Sweet Gail," who kept saying that she wanted to "be exploited."

I saw a photo of Sweet Gail which showed her in a home-made Viking-style helmet and a brassiere, onto which she'd sewn bullseyes.

Clearly, she's on her way to living her dream.

It's a two-hour show, but if you get to about halfway, Sweet Gail will blow your mind.

I will have a YouTube clip of my set as soon as Windows Movie Maker stops being lame. I mean, is it too much for a blacktress to add a fade in and a fade out? I'm a fucking professional!

Miss you guys! I will be back much, much sooner to share the brilliant writing of Charlaine Harris (creator of the novels on which "True Blood" is based) as well as my treatise on why everyone should go to Pennsylvania to find a monogamous man.

LYLAS!

-Blacktress

*Speaking of, I'm designing a new line of clothing:

What do you think?

Overheard in Bank of America

"So then he left and was just like, 'I gotta go.' Then later I texted him, 'How's packing going?' He writes back, 'It sucks. I'm loading the car now.' Then I wrote, 'I had fun last night.' And he wrote, 'Yeah. Let's get together Friday night.' So, like, he wants to see me, you know? He wouldn't have said 'Let's get together, you know?'

Steve? You mean Steve my real estate agent? He wouldn't say anything.

No, he knows Glen. He knows the situation.

Steve said he texted him and he said it was 'hot, drunk sex,' so, he must have liked it, you know?

Ugh, this thing is not taking my card.

I don't know. What?

We didn't go to breakfast the next morning, but I was so dead asleep, he said he couldn't even wake me.

It's weird.

I don't know.

But, like, we've done this before, you know? He wouldn't keep coming home with me if he wasn't into it, you know?

I just--"

As much as I wanted to hear the end of this story, I had to get back to the plantation. But seriously, I was riveted. There was so much I needed to know, such as....

• How can you be talking about your 'hot drunk sex' all up in the bank with your outside voice on a cell phone?
• Your real estate agent is getting you dudes? Would that make him your pimp?
• Why are you tripping over a dude named Glen?

I am a Funny Female!

Which I hope you already know. But, like, this is for real, guys! I’m not just funny in my head or on the internet—I have been deemed funny and added to a roster that includes the dopest lady comics in the country!!!!

I'm the first one on Friday at 8pm, and second on Saturday!

Tomorrow afternoon I head for San Francisco and I must say, I am nervous as all get-out. What began as California Dreams have become California nightmares. What if the crowd has no California Love for me? What if the California “Gurls” spew whipped cream from their boobies whenever they don’t like one of my punchlines? Will I ever want to go Back, Back to Cali, Cali?

I just have no idea what I’m in for—I just found out two days ago that the current high temp in SF is 62 degrees, and my mind is officially blown. There is no certainty in this life; all bets are fucking OFF. If I can’t even count on some semblance of summer weather, how can I make any assumptions about the audience? Will the crowd be full of supportive gays or crunchy hippies? What about people who aren’t stereotypes??? I won’t even know how to cope!

My whole bit about not wanting children better not get me boo’d off stage.

I’ve been hitting open mics over the last couple weeks, but I haven’t had a booked show in a while. Plus, I don’t even know what the venue’s going to be like. Is the stage wide or narrow, deep or shallow? How bright are the lights—are we talking ‘get out of the light, Carol Ann’ type of bright or an ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ type of spotlight? I was all set to wear cute dresses on stage, but now that it’s gonna be about 50 degrees by showtime, I’ve gotta find something that’s both cute and warm—The shows are being filmed, streamed, and circulated—and I’ve got some new folks to meet!

Yesterday I got an email from a graduate student from an SF university, asking if she could interview me for her dissertation. I kid you not, gentle readers. I have been found and sought out for my blackting and comedy skillz. Hours before that request, I got a (far less sketchy) facebook message from a comic who said he saw me on the internets and “Just wanted to let you know that I am a big fan of your work. I would love to be added as one of your friends.”
A FAN OF MY WORK? If this is a sketchy spambot, I’ll take it!

Now that I officially have fans, I’ve got to buck up. I can’t let them down with a sub-par performance. The PhD student must devote at least a full chapter of her dissertation to the history of Sojourner ‘You Can’t Handle the’ Truth.

I’ve gotta find a way to fit chunky sweaters into my carry-on suitcase! I’ve gotta hope that Delta Airlines doesn’t do me dirty again, and hasn’t taken a page from the American Airlines handbook of fuckery.

I’ve gotta hope that I can get my hair did bright and early tomorrow and make it to JFK by 1pm.

I’m taking a lot of risks, and to top it off, I’ve been writing like a demon for the 25th anniversary issue of my magazine, which ships next week. Sure, I could have not decided to do a show across the country a week before my press date. But then I would have cut a bitch. I can’t let these artists stop me from having dreams, y'all—especially not my California Dreams.

Wish me luck!

A Win. A Loss. A Random.

*****[This post was supposed to publish on Friday, but apparently I clicked 'Draft' and not 'Publish'--whoops! I guess I've been getting too wrapped up in Shark Week.]*****

Happy Friday, friends! Over the last couple days a lot has gone on in the world of the young, gifted, and black woman—and like I always say, Ain't I a Woman?


Let’s start with the good news.

Two female African American police officers have made history by becoming the first top cops to command a city precinct.

Deputy Inspector Juanita Holmes and Capt. Vanessa Kight are now the top cops at Brooklyn’s 81st Precinct in Bedford-Stuyvestant.

YAY!!! Talk about some strong black women! DI Holmes has already been with the precinct 27 years. Apparently, she's not getting too old for this shit!

Now, for the sad news:

A Black High School Student in Arkansas Can't Be Valedictorian Because...SHE'S BLACK.

For reals, y'all.

Kymberly Wimberly, 18, got only a single B in her 4 years at McGehee Secondary School, and loaded up on Honors and Advanced Placement classes. She had the highest GPA in her class, but was forced to share the honor of valedictorian with a white student with a lower GPA. She and her lawyer argue that the school's refusal to let her be sole valedictorian was part of a pattern of discrimination against black students.

Wimberly's mother, the school's "certified media specialist," says in the federal discrimination complaint that after her daughter had been told she would be valedictorian, she heard "in the copy room that same day, other school personnel express concern that Wimberly's status as valedictorian might cause a 'big mess.'"

There are a number of things wrong with this picture, but only one that makes people giggle over and over again: the girl’s name.

Because yes, you read it right—her name is KYMBERLY WIMBERLY. (#WhyBlackPeopleCan'tHaveNiceThings)

Before you start calling me a discredit to the race, let me be clear: the real tragedy is the blatant racism and discrimination that is preventing a young, gifted, and black woman from receiving hard-earned honors. She's also a teen mom, which shows that she's driven, dedicated, and won't let a baby hold her back. She's a role model!!!! Denying Kym Wim of the chance to stand before her school after years of hard work and share her experience, strength, and hope tells black children everywhere that there's no point in trying. (#NoWeCan't)

But why on earth did her mom name her Kymberly Wimberly? How much did THAT have to do with people's ability to accept her as sole valedictorian? You're already on thin ice by making a life in the home of the Little Rock Nine--why not at least give your daughter a fighting chance with a non-rhyming name? Mama Wimberly wasn't even allowed to bring her grievance to the PTA meeting, which you know ain't right. But if you came into my PTA meeting and I knew you'd named your child Kymberly Wimberly, I probably wouldn’t let you speak, either. Your judgment would be questioned at every turn.

And now the case is all over the internets, and the most common comments are:

Her mother should be sued for naming her daughter Kymberly Wimberly.

Kymberly Wimberly, what a great name! Hope she runs for president one day.

That's screwed up and all, but what kind of name is Kymberly Wimberly?
Reply: I think maybe that is why it would cause a "big mess". Everyone would think it's a joke.

Po' Kym Wim! She overcame Arkansas, teen motherhood, and poor parental judgment and still can't catch a break. (#WeShallOverCome,JustNotToday)

In other news......

I just got the most random FB msg ever. If this isn’t love in the digital age, I don’t know what is:

hi pretty baby how was your i hope every thing is fine,i am passing by i saw your pics and how beautiful it is,and i want to appreciate your beauty. my name is Thomas brown i am honest,kindly and lovely man ,baby i am single in my palace,baby u are the true vine,and Ur love is the vine dresser ,u are the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys, to chat with me thomasbrown2014luv@yahoo.com, i will be waiting for reply bye

This guy clearly wants to give me the herp and steal my identity. What is a "true vine" and a "vine dresser"?

How I'll Meet My Lover

Hey friends!

I've been hemming and hawing about what to blog about this week, fearful that I'd end up sued for libel and/or dumped on the streets of Harlem. I realize that the only fair game is celebrities and myself, as well as anyone who won't assume the worst of me. With that, I must share this juicy bit of info I got from a comedy-club booker just moments ago.

Neil Patrick Harris—or, as I like to call him, Heterosexuality's Greatest Loss—lives in Harlem.

Yes, y'all! NPH/HGL was one of our earliest gentrifiers. I knew we had a connection that extended beyond my brain’s fantasyworld.
(Note to self: I'll have to write him a letter and thank him for bringing black folks brunch.)

How did I get this info, you ask? Well, the booker called me about a showcase his club is doing for an NBC casting person. We got to chatting a bit and discovered we lived in the same neighborhood. My response:
“Oh, you’re one of the ones who jacked up our prices!”
Booker: Yup. I’ve been here about 10 years. Doogie Howser is here, too.
Me: Wait, what? SHUT UP. NPH lives in your building?
Booker: Huh?
Me: Neil. Patrick. Harris.
Booker: Yeah.
Me: You are my new best friend. I hope you don’t mind if I stalk you now.

He then goes on to tell me that, although NPH/HGL has a hip pad downtown, he uses his Harlem apartment “as a homebase.” When he was hosting the Tony Awards this year, he had the extended fam staying there, away from the limelight and the paps!

Apparently, he’s lived uptown since his post-Doogie days. Guys, what if NPH was right behind me in line at the Uptown Juice Bar? What if he also bought quarter waters at the bodega?* What if he, too, used to enjoyed a good Jamaican beef patty after a long day? And, most important—has he been to the iHop that opened on 135th street?????

I’ve always felt a kinship with him—like Dr. Howser, I enjoy unwinding at the end of a long day with a good ol’ recap on my computer. Like Barney Stinson, I have a slutty history and daddy issues. And, as a host, NPH and I will go to any length’s to wow the crowd—including rapping.

He did this with zero preparation. It was written on the spot after all the winners were announced. The man is a true professional.

I’m sure I’ve already blogged about my goal to become NPH’s au pair, so I won’t bother outlining that fantasy again. But guys, the fact that NPH is regularly within a mile of me brings me one step closer to achieving my dream! Can you imagine me with the twins?!

Photo courtesy JJSiii

I don’t know how I’ll make this happen. I’m thinking my best bet is through his partner, as he can likely travel incognito and just walks around the neighborhood. I am willing to take my time to befriend him, as it will allow me to know NPH through his lifemate. When we finally meet—hopefully at a bourgie Harlem restaurant offering “Haute Soul Cuisine” or some crap—it will be like we’ve know each other all our lives. The babies will reach for me as if they already know I’m the Corinna Corinna to their Molly Singer.

The whole fam will come to my stand-up shows, and I’ll have to make sure my friends don’t embarrass me in front of NPH, but he’ll be so cool and down to earth, it won’t even be a big deal. We’ll regularly “do brunch” and they’ll call me when the twins are finicky and they don’t know what to do. I bet they’ll even start celebrating Kwanzaa!!!

A gal can dream, right?

Oh, and by the way—I got a slot on the showcase. Hopefully you’ll get to see Blacktress on 30 Rock -- It's about time Tracy Morgan got some competition.


*If you understand this reference, I heart you. Please come to my aid the next time my negrosity is questioned.

Brokeback Blacktress!

Emphasis on the BACK!

I swear, I'm not trying to be the blacktress who cried wolf. All weekend, I've just been struggling. I just can't fight the urge to blog. I think I finally get Jack Twist's struggle, as I, too, wish I knew how to quit you!
And by 'you,' I mean 'internet-fueled narcissism.'

I just can't not tell my truths. I feel like the little boy at the end of Shane.



Only, instead of screaming "Shane, come back!" I'm yelling, "Blog!!!!!"


After an empowering talk with my therapist, I realized that silencing my voice isn't the answer. Although there was a fallout from the last post (and, surprisingly enough, it had nothing to do with my mom's words), most of the folks who can handle my truth got where I was coming from. I can't let misinterpretations freak me out. BUT....

I can't just call myself "You Can't Handle the Truth" and then get all butt-hurt when people can't, in fact, handle the truth. I've gotta own it. So, with that, I will keep my emotions reigned in and try not to bring up anything hurtful to people I care about. I was advised to start a separate, password-protected blog where I can pour out my feelings, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to do--I'm not some 14-year-old in 1995 with a LiveJournal. There will be no emo poetry here. There will, on occassion, be a touch of emotion, but my tone will be much clearer in the future-- let's see if it's not too boring.

Don't give up on me, gentle readers! I promise I'll keep bringing the fun and fresh, and I urge all those with an issue to leave a comment so that I can clarify things before relationships get ruined! It's the only way to keep love alive!

Okay, back to pretending to work. I'll have a real post soon--after all, Amy Winehouse would have wanted it that way.

Farewell, Friends!!!

This latest incident with the blog has prompted me to get out of the blogsphere. It seems that people in my daily life can't handle my truths, and minutes of happy typing are becoming the impetus for lectures, diatribes, and relationship collapses. This blog has been so much fun to write, and brought wonderful things into my life--like Eli Reed, who I wouldn't have ever met in Australia if she hadn't found this blog before I even moved over there--but the fallout on the northern hemisphere is just rough.

Hopefully this is a phase, but until I can figure out how to write what makes this readable/enjoyable in the first place without causing strife with friends, possibly losing my job, and ending my relationships, I gotta take a break.

What Do You Want From Me, World???????

Hey y'all!
How was your weekend? Hanging with my Jewish fam this weekend was fun and far too short. I love acting like a tourist in the suburbs, and the fam is happy to oblige. Not only did we get dessert at Dairy Queen and Sonic, we also saw some Amish riding down the street in a horse and buggy. I have gotten my suburban fix for the remainder of the year.

[A PORTION OF THIS POST HAS BEEN REMOVED DUE TO READERS NOT KNOWING HOW TO BE COOL. ONE PERSON COULDN'T BEHAVE, AND NOW THERE'S NO EMOTIONAL CONNECTION FOR ANYONE.]

After all, I'm not Bradley Cooper.

Although he is limitless, my mom wouldn’t want me to marry him.

I got into work this morning (an hour late—score!) and found a FB message from THE AUSTRALIAN?
Remember him, y’all?
Nope, not the redheaded Weasley.
Not the racist one.
Nope, not Kebab Boy.
Not the American guy who went to Australia after our first two dates and never called again.
The first one. The man that started it all.

I fucking hate facebook.
As you know, it all went horribly wrong with the Aussie, with my visit to his homeland resulting in a complete severance of contact (funny, that). I still think of him with a twinge, but it happens once every three months, and is only in a, “I hate that he thinks I’m the crazy one!” kind of way, not a swoony way. I haven’t spoken to him since we had a White president.
Turns out two NYC pals I haven’t seen in ages just had their babies and I sent along my congratulations via wall post (as you do in this internet age). For this act of pseudo-human-interaction, I received the following:











Subject: Hello

Hey [BLACKTRESS],
How are you? Saw you on [new parents’] photo post.
Hope you're doing great.
[D-bag]

WHY?????? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?
Hey, Folger’s, I got a new jingle for you:
“The worst part of wakin’ up / Is an asshole who won’t shut up!”

I think what's most insane about it is the attempt at a casual hello--as if seeing me on a "photo post" was the same as seeing me at a party or something. And he hopes I'm doing "Great." What if I wrote back and said, "I'm doing good, not great--gotta drain my labia three times a day."
Hmmm.....perhaps that would prevent him from contacting me forever.....

Of course, I couldn't deal with this alone at my desk. I promptly alerted KWalsh to the situation.

me: THE AUSTRALIAN FRIENDED ME ON FACEBOOK
KWalsh: ewwwwwwwwwww
me: DUDE, I CAN'T FUCKING COPE WITH THIS WORLD
ok, i'm done with the caps
KWalsh: haha
me: and his profile pic is a glamour shot
like, out of control
what do you think his mental illness is?
KWalsh: hahahaha
being australian?
KWalsh: i think men have amnesia about the shit they do
like, 2 years passes and suddenly they're like "oh yeah, her! cool!"
like don't remember any of the strife
oorrrrrrr they didnt think it was crazy dramatic in the first place
normal
me: we were never friends! He is a crazy biatch
KWalsh: i know but i think he thinks you were friends
in his retroactive narrative
me: but that's so strange
we met at a bar, had a torrid affair, then he went back to Australia
he sent me his penis over the internet and tried to have phone sex with a 16-hour time difference while he was in a relationship
when became single again, he came back to nyc 8 months
we had another torrid three-day affair
and then when i said i didn't want to be his friend in australia, he said i was "fucking crazy"
KWalsh: i know these are all FACTS
but i think he is just conveniently remembering that you're his mate in the US
me: that doesn't compute in my brainhole

And it still doesn’t, guys. I mean, all for living and letting live, but there's a huge difference between that and "sure, show up in my minifeed and keep tabs on my performance schedule as though we have a mutual respect that makes that unobtrusive."
See how many more words that is--clearly, it's very different.

In other news:
I was asked to do a voiceover on the plantation last week for a craft event. Because our setup is so broke and busted, me and the video guy had to record it locked in the bathroom. Of course, you know my work ethic--I'm in it for the bennies and the blog fodder. With that in mind, I have provided a few choice outtakes from the recording session:

Family Matters

Happy Friday, y'all!

So, I'm taking this summer Friday and heading off to PA, to visit Jewboo's parents. I could barely sleep last night, which is nothing new given my anxiety levels. But I realized, as I jumped up and got everything done this morning, that maybe I wasn't anxious as much as excited. I love visiting the 'rents; middle-aged Jews hold a special place in my heart (probably all those years of private school), and Jewboo's parents think I'm the next best thing since sliced challah. Nothing makes me feel like a vital contributor to the human race quite like Papa Jewboo telling me I'm a "catch."
It's also really nice to get out of the city and get the scent of homeless-man urine out of my nostrils.

Today is almost a year to the day that I first met the parents. As some of you may recall, that was certainly a trial by fire, as I ended up in the ER within 12 hours of arriving. (Learn from my mistake, ladies: Always use the vaginal suppository.) Although I was mortified for days, the upside of that hot mess was that the standards for a "good visit" are pretty low--as long as I don't end up hospitalized or lose the ability to breathe, we'll all have a gay ol' time!

Have I mentioned that Jewboo's mom makes me nervous? She's not mean or anything, she's just kinda quiet and doesn't really have patience for bullshit. Yes, okay, she's a strong black woman in a white candy coating, and for that I love her--but I also feel this need to "crack" her. With robotic, straight-faced, non-emotive folks, there's always a part of me that wants to be the one to make them laugh. I want to get a serious guffaw. I want to get a thigh slap and a gasp for air outta this woman! But of course, as with any relationship, too much wanting makes for creepiness and awkwardness.

I'm trying to play it cool and just chillax. I'll let you know how it goes, though. Wish me luck!

xoxo,
blacktress!!

Four Times a Blacktress....A List

Hey gang!

God, I feel like I haven’t blogged in forevs. There’s so much to share; I don’t even know where to begin. Let’s just go with the highlights:

1. Brooke Shields is my new BFF!
Fer reals. Saturday morning, I was meeting up with some friends at noon, and was a bit early. To kill time, I went to the nearby Dean & Deluca for an iced tea. As I approach the door, a tall woman and a shorter bald man (her main gay?) beat me to the door and head in. I catch a glimpse of the woman’s face, and instantly I recognize her. Holy shit, it’s Brooke Shields! I walk in behind them and order my iced tea with lemon slices, trying not to stare.
Okay, Blacktress, be cool. Don’t be creepy; celebrities like living in New York because we don’t stare. But I can’t just not act like Brooke Shields isn’t two feet from me, asking about the soup of the day.
Brooke’s asking the guy what’s up with the soups, and I’m thinking, Brooke, it’s 95 degrees. Why on earth do you want soup? She’s such a goose.
The waiter offers to let her taste the soups and it turns out one of them in a succotash.
The moment was now.
“What’s a succotash? Is it like a gumbo?” I asked.
Brooke looked at me, square in the eye, like I was a real human. She tilts her cup down toward me to show me the very unattractive combination.
“Oh, it’s creamy.”
“Yeah, but it’s got bacon in it,” she says, making a face.
“Guh.”
After tossing the taster in the trash, she comes back over and whispers, “You know, the pizza place next door has lemons. They’ll give you a slice if you ask.”
I laughed. "Good call," I said, as if we were besties.
Brooke, I can't just roll up to a pizza place asking for a slice of lemon. It’s not like it’s a lemon factory! And even if it was, I don’t think they’d just be giving away the product. It was so cute, the way Brooke thought I could do something that she can do.
Me: Can I have a couple slices of lemon, please?
Pizza Guy: What?
Me: Slices of lemon….for my tea?
Pizza Guy: We don’t have that.
Me: Brooke Shields said I could get a slice of lemon here.
Pizza Guy: What? No, no, we don’t have that here.
Me: Are you trying to make a liar out of Brooke Shields?
[I am then forcibly ejected from the establishment.]

Brooke looks just as good in person, y'all. She's a glamazon.

2. Whoopi Goldberg hates people / The View is just like Kindergarten


I haven’t had a blog post up sooner because Monday I wasn’t at work (we all know that’s where the good writing gets done). My mom ordered tickets for The View, like, two years ago, and they came in the mail last week. She was going to toss them when I stopped her--When else would I get to see Whoopi, Joy, and Sherri IRL? Thanks to the magic of facebook, the third ticket went to a precious Greek gay man that I met at a commercial audition a couple months back. After waiting in line for three hours, we got into the theater and ended up in the front row (turned out to be right behind the camera, though--sadface!). During the commercial breaks, we were allowed to ask questions (and eat the Keebler cookies and juice given to us before filming.) My mother raised her hand instantly.
“I have a question for Whoopi and Joy,” she said. “My daughter and her friend are young comedians trying to break out, and I wondered what advice you would have for them.”
“What kind of comedy?” Sherrie asked.

“Stand-up,” I said.
“You just gotta keep getting up,” Joy said. “I would do six sets a night. I’d go from Laugh Factory to Improv to next one and the next. That’s how you get good.”
Whoopi, on the other hand, did not. Look. Up. The. Entire. Time.
Apparently, she’s slightly Aspberger-y. When someone asked about relationships, Whoopi went on a tangent about how she never wants to live with someone ever again. “I’ll love you to death, make love to you on top of the Empire State Building,” she said, “but you can’t live with me.” The audience laughed, but Whoopi wasn’t joking. It’s amazing how someone who has won a Grammy, a Tony, an Emmy, and an Oscar could dislike crowds so much.
(There goes my plan to make her my mentor. Kathy Griffin, it’s on you!)

Joy Behar, however, is now my new favorite cast member. She was so chill and normal. I did, however, fall into a fear-spiral thinking of her advice. I did a show at 10:30pm Sunday and I was knocked out for the next day, not to mention six sets a night. What about showing up for work and actually doing stuff? What about getting your laundry from the washer to the dryer? Who has that kind of time?! Or, better yet—who doesn’t have that kind of time and actually makes it in the comedy biznass?

3. We have a new summer intern. He is 15, has swoopy bangs, and recently got his braces off. He was out of the office for about a week (homey gets more vacay time than I do!), and just came back in today--with his girlfriend. Apparently, he was seeing her in LA and his dad told him he had to come home, so he brought her with him. She has curly black hair and is cute as a button. I have been calling them “Gomez and Bieber” all day long.
Yes, I put the GF to work.

4. New TMI from the Massa.

During a 1on1 meeting with my boss this morning, I asked him who posed for a painting he’d done, which was now on his desk. This innocuous query leads to a 5-minute monologue about this young guy who was “obsessed” with him. “I mean, it happens, I’ve come to accept it. I’m a good-looking guy, I seem like I have my shit together; I get it,” he says. “Then it got all messed up. He told people that I fucked him. He was telling everyone I fucked him—and I didn’t.”

[I needed him to stop saying “I fucked him” but he wouldn’t.]