There's Something About A Blacktress?

You guys know how I regularly attract randoms, right? Whether it's a random Southern gent in alphabet city or an Australian mafia member, there's just something about a blacktress that brings out the inappropriateness in people. Last week, while dining at one of my favorite restaurants with my mom, I realized that it just might be genetic.

After we ordered, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands (because I'm convinced everyone on the subway has bedbugs and Hepatitis A - Z). When I returned, the waitress--a 40-something Asian woman with long black hair and a paisley print top--came over to our table.

Waitress: Ooooh, look at you, big girl!

I looked at my mother, who was just sipping her soda and trying not to laugh.

Waitress: How old are you now? You're such a big girl!

Why is she talking to me like I'm 5 years old and we've somehow met before?

Me: I'm 27.

Waitress [incredulous]: What?! No! You look so young. That's good. Such good skin. Oh, I see your sushi! (she leaves to go get it)

I made a 'WTF?' face to my mother.

Mom [in her library voice, leaning close]: When you were in the bathroom she came up to me and started talking. She told me she had a black daughter who was, "good, with a lot of energy--cause of her Jamaican blood. She's not quiet, like Asian girls."

Me: What?! I left you alone for 90 seconds, mother. How could this happen?

Mom: I don't know. People just come up to me and say things. I have a face that says, "I won't attack you if you decide to share."

Me: Ugh, so I have you to blame. When I was inside Caucasia, they thought I was their Oprah figure or something.

Waitress [sets sushi on the table]: I can't believe it, you're 27! Mom, you so young. Me, I started late. My daughter's 7 years old. I'm 47. But she is a good girl, like you. My husband, he's from Jamaica--not Queens. Jamaica Jamaica.

[We didn't know what to do while this was going on. We wanted to eat our sushi but she was standing over us and it felt awkward.]

Why am I telling you this? Well, because I just got off the phone with my credit card company (gotta pay some billz!) and it seems that even my phone voice inspires randoms to overshare. Customer service rep "Ken" would not stop with the yackity yakkkking!

Ken: Your last name...what region in that from?
Me: It's Nigerian.
Ken: Ooooh, you're Nigerian. That's good. This is the Kansas office you're calling now. I went to KU and even though I'm from the US Virgin Islands, with my accent, they let me into the international students club. I had a lot of African friends--their last names were hard to pronounce. I said, I said, 'Can I call you a short 3-letter name instead?'
Me: ha ha ha?
Ken: Yeah, the Nigerians had some of the hardest names. ... I have a lot of Ethiopian friends, too. They spoke...Amharic.
Me: Don't know it.
[Ken then proceeds to recite every number and letter of my name and address as he types it. Ugh, this guy couldn't just sit in silence for a second???]
Ken: You live in New York?
Me: Yes

[Fuck, Ken is going to steal my personal information and show up at my doorstep.]

Ken: New York is the meeting place for every. culture. in. da. worl....

(that's not a typo--he didn't pronounce the 'd'.)
(he laughs lazily, like he's just gotten high and is watching a cartoon.)

Me: Ha ha ha?

Ken: Like the coastes [yes, that was his plural of coasts.] I was down in Miami one time--it didn't feel like America. It felt like Mexico and Cuba. And in California, there were so many street names in Spanish--it was really....interesting and unique....

[I say nothing. I'm just really hoping my payment will go through so I can get off the phone.]
Ken: I like a lot of world cultures.

[I continue to say nothing. Clearly, this man will take a mile so I can't even be polite.]

Ken: Okay, I'm waiting for the system to process....to process...to process......... OK, your payment went through.
Me: Thank you!
Ken: Have a great day--maybe I'll see you in New York City!
Me: AAAAHHHH!
I hang up.

Guys, I may have a stalker who works for Chase. I'm gonna have to get some Occupiers to protect me.

Really?! (Said in the voice of Chandler Bing)

One of my fellow freedom writers alerted me to the latest CauCRAYsian activity--this time, taking place on our own American soil.

Last week, six sorority girls at the University of Southern Mississippi went to an 80s-themed party as the Huxtable family dressed in blackface.

WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!??? WHITE PEOPLE, WHAT IS UP WITH YOU???? I can't cope!!

Apparently, the six members of the Phi Mu sorority--who have not been publicly identified, because someone is caring enough to protect these delicate Southern belles--have been placed on probation. According to the article:

"Phi Mu National President Kris Bridges says the matter is being investigated and more disciplinary action could follow. She says the local chapter will sponsor a campus-wide program on diversity appreciation."

What will a program on "diversity appreciation" do? I don't think these six girls lack an appreciation of black people--after all, where would they get such excellent costuming ideas? I think they lack a moral compass that directs them toward respecting people of color and remembering the history of racism, oppression, and segregation that is still alive and well in some parts of the very state in which they study.

Of course, I had to get some more info--you know how I like to go inside Caucasia and get answers from the root. A visit to the Phi Mu website led me to their creed, which I'd like to share with you:

THE CREED OF PHI MU FRATERNITY

To lend to those less fortunate a helping hand.
To think of God as a protector and guide of us all.
To keep forever sacred the memory of those we have loved and lost.
To be to others what we would they would be to us.
To keep our lives gentle, merciful and just,
Thus being true to the womanhood of love.

To walk in the way of honor, guarding the purity of our thoughts and deeds.
Being steadfast in every duty small or large.
Believing that our given word is binding.
Striving to esteem the inner man above culture, wealth or pedigree.
Being honorable, courteous, tender,
Thus being true to the womanhood of honor.

To serve in the light of truth avoiding egotism, narrowness and scorn.
To give freely of our sympathies.
To reverence God as our Maker, striving to serve Him in all things.
To minister to the needy and unfortunate.
To practice day by day love, honor, truth.
Thus keeping true to the meaning, spirit and reality of Phi Mu.


Okay, well in some ways these three girls did stay true to the creed.

"To lend to those less fortunate a helping hand."

You certainly gave black folks a leg up with this stunt, ladies--thanks!

"To be to others what we would they would be to us."

Grammar aside, I think they've certainly secured my disrespect and wrath, so consider the mission accomplished, girls!

"To walk in the way of honor..."

I'm assuming that in this sense, to walk in the way of means to obstruct. If so, give yourselves a check in that column, girls!

"Being steadfast in every duty, small or large"

I would definitely say so--these six gals didn't just get excited about a 1980s-themed party. They took the theme of an 80s party to an extreme degree, honoring both the 1980s and the 1880s! Talk about steadfast!

They weren't exactly honorable, courteous, or tender, but then again, I wasn't there. Perhaps the one dressed as Clair imparted a few life lessons in between jello shots and making out with the president of the young Republicans club.

A couple quick Qs:

- What's "the womanhood of love?"

- What does is mean to "believe that our given world is binding"?

- To minister to the needy and unfortunate? Are they missionaries?

Texts From Last Night A Long Time Ago

Hey friends!

You know how much I love to share random inappropriate conversations I have with strangers in this mixed-up crazy city. Many times, while trapped in a moving vehicle—be it taxi, subway car, or crosstown bus—my chauffeur says tons of crazy things that I must play along with lest I end up the inspiration for an episode of Law & Order: SVU In these instances, I try to text the gems quickly to myself and save them as drafts for future bloggery. My phone just told me I had to delete some messages and I found a treasure trove of random snippets of crazy. I’d like to take you along with me now, as I journey down memory lane.

“I was in bed…by myself…listenin to them windows. This girl called me, asking me to come get her. It was, like, 11 o’clock, so I knew what she was tryna do. She was like, ‘you don’t wanna come get me?’ and I was like, ‘Girl, it’s a hurricane—I do wanna get you, but I don’t wanna die!’ So I stayed at home, by myself, just spread out on my bed, listenin’ to the rain—and it wasn’t even no hurricane, so you know I’m still pissed!”
-- From a text draft titled “Rando Cab Driver.”

This chap talked to me every minute from Greenpoint, Brooklyn, to 135th Street, Harlem. He repeatedly mentioned being alone in his bed, and then proceeded to talk about “them boosters—you know, dudes who steal your phone and then sell that shit to the bodega. Girls, running around out here by they self, getting raped,” at which point I attempted to unlock the door and roll out of the moving vehicle like I saw Mel Gibson do in Lethal Weapon. There is no need to mention the ‘R’ word on a balmy summer night to a woman you are transporting. Ever.

“Remember that time we took a left? It was so fun—no, no, cause we always make a right.”
--From a draft titled, “Domestication in Caucasia.”

This was said with complete sincerity by my married mom friend in New Hampshire. As we sat in their gorgeous kitchen, I acted like a foreign exchange student, asking them what they do for fun up in the country. As they recounted things I didn’t understand, Lizzy excitedly recalled the time they “took a left.” I collapsed into a fit of laughter and obviously didn’t want to let myself forget it.

“We went to this real romantic Chipotle.”
--This draft had no title. Clearly, I could not encapsulate the amazingingness of this sentence in three words or less. This man—who shall remain nameless—might be the greatest lover of all time. I really wanted to ask the location of this Chipotle, but I didn't want him to think I was hitting on him.

[Holding bottle of pesticide] “I told you, stop sprayin’ this stuff!! You don’t know what it’s doing to your body! If you decide to have a baby, you want it to be retarded or do you want it to be normal?! Go ahead, laugh—but it won’t be funny when you’re taking care of a child with special needs on a stand-up salary.”
--My mom, to me, yesterday morning. And she wonders where I get my penchant for hyperbole and drama. Apparently, my pathological fear of bedbugs will land me on a Discovery Health documentary.

He's Baaaaaccckkkkkk

You guys know how much I'm obsessed with R. Kelly, right?

Just when his grip was starting to loosen, he comes out with his autobiography:



No words are needed here. As usual, R. Kelly leaves us shocked, awed, and titillated.

Hot Off the Presses!

I’m not the most topical of bloggers, but every now and then a breaking news item catches my eye and I just have to share. Today is, in the words of Monica, just one of dem days. We all know European news is the best, because the history of colonialism have made Europeans impervious to political correctness and therefore filled with more truthiness. Add to that their love for all things random and you’ve got today’s best news:

Burly rugby player has a stroke after freak gym accident… wakes up gay and becomes a hairdresser.
Yes, yes he did.

While training at the gym* on a typical day in 2005, young beefcake Chris Birch suffered a stroke after “trying to impress his friends with a back flip but broke his neck.” When he emerged from surgery he woke up a changed--and gay--man.

I love this pose—they’ve made him pose like a superhero. A really hip, punk, fierce superhero who uses the powers of blow drying to rid the world of dull, lifeless hair.

According to the UK journalist who broke the story, “Stroke association spokesman Joe Korner said: 'Strokes can have a big effect on individuals and lead to personality changes.’” Okay, that doesn't sound all that cray cray, but, um, stroke association? Is that what it’s called? Which association and where is it located? I feel like they needed to do a bit of fact checking.

Wait, I just checked. Yep, it's called The Stroke Association. Man, that's why I love the Commonwealth--they keep it simple. It's like Australia's attempt to acknowledge their colonization, killing, and enslavement of Aboriginal people with their yearly "Sorry Day."

Yes, that's what it's called.

Anyhoozle, just wanted to share that with you. This is just great!! How much do you want to be a part of their relationship?

They should form a British version of Blink-182.

*(Surprise, surprise--how many times have we said male sports were homosocial?)

I HEART The 80s

Saturday night I’m doing a set at another one of those burlesque shows—you know the ones. Although they are cray, I’m actually getting paid this time, and I’m not turnin’ down cash in these trying times. The producer/lead performer has requested that I adjust my set to fit with the theme of the show—the 1980s. Although I’m a true fuckin’ artist and I’m sensitive about my shit (a la Erykah Badu circa Call Tyrone), I like a good challenge. I’m thinking of it as more of an assignment—and I’m kinda struggling. So, let’s get a study group going, guys. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

80s-centric Bits/Concepts:

• The 1980s as a time of low standards (tv and commercials):

Mr. Wizard’s World:Who were those neighborhood kids who would help him with his experiments?? If that show was on today, he’d be on To Catch a Predator. Chris Hansen would burst in the damn kitchen and get some answers.

Does that count as inappropriate touching?

Folger’s coffee commercials: That coffee was fucking FAMOUS. Remember the jingle? The best part of waking up is Folger’s in your cup.

Um, I don’t know about you, but if the best part of waking up is a cup of coffee, you might want to go back to bed! Maybe get quiet, assess your goals, take some time for reflection. I know you're dealing with trickle-down economics, but that's no reason to stop having dreams.

• But it was a great time to be black in the late 1980s!!! The Cosby Show and A Different World—those shows made me want to be a blacktress. You had these talented folks, many of whom were darker than a paper bag, just livin' life the way people of all colors do. There was a place for me….til I actually got old enough to start pursuing it. By the mid-90s, my only option was Homeboys in Outer Space.

The title pretty much says it all. Two black men who didn’t have any bargaining chips played astronauts on a stranded spaceship. The computer that ran the ship was a female voice named….Loquatia.

#whyblackpeoplecan’thavenicethings

• It was easy to show your affection in the 80s. If you wanted to show you were into someone, all you needed was: a MIX TAPE. That shit was real. None of this clickin’-and-draggin’ foolery. You had to find the track, sync that shit up, think about the flow from one to the other. And if you were a keeper, you definitely rewound the blank tape to create as seamless a transition as possible from one song to the other.

• Loved shows with absentee dads, though. I felt a lot of connection to the female protagonists:

Out of This World: Dad was a fucking alien!

My Two Dads: I was jealous of that bitch. Her eyebrows were completely unmanageable and she had two dudes willing to raise her. I didn't get the problem--that judge should have left them alone.


Okay, guys, let’s put our heads together. Leave a comment (and don’t steal my bits). What else can we add to the list????

News From the Belly of the Beast

Y’all, I just got some serious intel from the heart of Caucasia and I need to spread the word. Remember how I gave my friend a cheat sheet in preparation for her trip to Sweden? Well, she’s been there a few weeks now and it seems that even I couldn’t prepare her for the madness inside CauCRAYsia. I have to share because, living in a buzzing multi-culti metropolis or being able to handle Sojo’s troofs, it’s so easy to forget that white folks still be trippin’—even the ones with universal healthcare! Here’s the latest from inside:

Apparently, organizers of a “slave auction” at Lund University in April will not be held responsible for their actions because it was “a costume party.”

WHAT IS WRONG WITH WHITE PEOPLE?????????!?!?!?!?!?!
White friends, I’m talkin’ to you—get me some answers! I know someone's letting something slip at the monthly mixers!

In the article “Lund Slave Auction Fallout”—I’m really hoping this was an error in translation, because “fallout” is just the understatement of the century—we learn that:

While Lund University in May announced that it would launch a new programme to educate students and staff about the university's core values, the university's disciplinary committee later elected to take no action after reviewing the incident.

Now, the district prosecutor has chosen not to file charges against the student organization for the staged auction.

”We can't prove that the people who dressed up did so with the intention to show contempt for a people. It was a costume party really, and that has to be considered in this case,” said district prosecutor and hate crimes specialist Mattias Larsson to local paper Sydsvenskan.

I don’t know what kind of specialist this fool is—I’m gonna need Stabler and Benson to get over there, because clearly Sweden's too busy letting the right one in to deal with the real issues.

Sweden WAS PART OF THE TRANSATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE, Y’ALL!!! Lund University students, if you don’t know, you better ask somebody! I suggest you start with one of your faculty members, Professor Dick Harrison, who lectures on the topic! In an interview on radiosweden.org back in 2007, he explained that:

Sweden's involvement in the slave trade was relatively small, but a new phase began in the late 18th century when the Swedish King Gustav III bought the West Indian island, Saint Barthelémy, from the French. He soon decided to turn it into a Swedish slave colony.
Dick Harrison says neither of the two waves were important for the economy on a national scale, but trafficking slaves across the Atlantic was a matter of national pride in Sweden. And even the church had no problem with it.
[more info—and sound clip—available here]

Post-racial, my ass.

Now, if this isn’t hubris, I don’t know what is:

After the incident, posters depicting [chairman of the National Afro-Swedish Association] Jallow Momodou in chains started appearing in several public places in Lund and at the Malmö University College.

Controversial artist Dan Park was later apprehended by police when found plastering his posters over central Lund. He was charged on Thursday with both hate speech and defamation.

Park told The Local on Friday that he thinks prosecutors are overreacting.

HOW IS THIS OKAY?????? Y’all, this is more limitless than Bradley Cooper. I can’t cope!!!

The posters appeared on the bulletin board of the university library and the text underneath read: “Our negro slave has run away.”

Momodou said, "For me it's proof that racism really exists in Sweden and is on a level comparable to the southern United States in the 1970s.” Y’all, he’s not even American and he knows this shit is straight-up Jim Crow. Don't get it twisted, y'all. We've gotta face the TRUTH that this shit is STILL GOING ON.

Of course, it's not like I was chased by a lynch mobs on the streets of Sverige, and my friend on the inside says she hasn't met anyone like these folks. But, dammit, this is just like T Perry--one bad apple ruins the bunch. Caucasia, if you want (me to say) nice things, get it together!

I’ve Run Out of Toilet Paper (A Poem)

As you all know, sometimes I find it much more fitting to express intense emotion in iambic pentameter, as in the case of my extreme love of Harry Potter. This weekend was an emotional rollercoaster and I thought it best to get to the heart of the matter with a little poem.

I've run out of toilet paper
I’ve been out since yesterday.
I’ve been rationing out 1/8 of a roll
And I know that it’s not okay.
While I’m at it, I should also add milk to my grocery list
It’s hard to have cereal for dinner with I have nothing to moisten it with.

I need to buy toilet paper
Would I do it if it were called “The Great Charmin Caper”?
There’s nothing quite as depleting as
Looking over while excreting and
Realizing that you’ve
Run out of toilet paper
Which you knew all day.
All that time hunting for red velvet cupcake ice cream
Could have been spent in a more productive way.
While I’m at it, I should probably send that birthday present to my friend’s kid
It’s been over a year and now she probably can’t fit it.

It’s a hat.

I need to buy toilet paper
Especially because it doubles as Kleenex
And, on occasion, it serves as a makeup-removing towelette
I got a flu shot on Monday and now my underarm hurts
And I'm all like, Why can't I do anything right?
Yes, I baked a tray of brownies on Monday
And yes, I'm eating them for dinner every night.

With cookies 'n' cream ice cream.

#IAmAChild

Okay, guys, I don’t want to be a buzz-kill, but I am really starting to get kinda grossed out by all the weddings taking place among my peers. I just found out that a friend from the class of 2007 got married last month—2007! He’s 26. Yes, I know that's well over the legal age and it's really 35 in Midwestern years, but still. I feel like there was a time when the 20-something liberal-arts-college graduate spent most of their early adulthood traveling and trying to help the impoverished before finally giving in and getting a stable job that could pay for the lifestyles to which their parents had made them accustomed. What happened to the Fulbright year, living L’Auberge Espagnole—and, more important, who is teaching those Asian children English and bedding their mothers and older sisters!

For some reason, the idea of marriage just seems far too mature for me. How can I know who I want to be with for the rest of my life (cause, you know, ideally I’m not planning to divorce him when I say my vows) when I don’t even know what I want to do with my life? I like the idea of having a partner, but without the security and ability to live my dreams--e.g. actually get an apartment, have nice things, and cook more than just pasta--would I actually be someone’s wife or would I just be playing house?

Perhaps growing up with a single mom had something to do with it. I never got the memo that a mate was the key to happiness. Or, more accurately, I never got the impression that just cause you got married meant you’d be together forever. After all, if I'd gotten my way and married the person I thought I wanted 3 years ago, you'd probably find me on Maury Povich waiting for the results of a lie detector test. Three years ago, I wasn't getting paid for comedy--I was on the other side of the world! In 3 more years, I could finally get to play the role of Kurt's BFF on GLEE. Does that mean that I'll need a new man at that time? No, not at all. But are there more things that could happen in my life that it might not be ideal/fair to drag someone else along for? Yep. The phrase “All you need is LOVE” is actually kinda bullshit to me—unless love also includes financial security, emotional health, creative fulfillment, and a consistent willingness to improve and explore new things with a partner.

I guess I’m bitter. It’s not that I don’t think my relationship has the power to stand the test of time, but I just wonder if I’m emotionally deficient in some way. I mean, I am or else I wouldn't want to be an actor, but I don’t know why I’m not filled with happiness and excitement for my peers.

I don’t want to blame everything on 9/11, but really, why else are we hurrying to run down the aisle when we can’t even pay our bills?

I get it, people are in love.

OOOOHHH!!!! I figured out why I’m all emotional about this—when I see people my age and younger who are committing to someone for the remainder of their lives, I get anxious because it seems that they’ve figured it all out. Not “the rules of life,” but who they actually are. To say you want to be with someone forever means that you know who you are, what you want now, and what you want in the future. The Q&A session is over. Pencils down, curtain closed, done and done, stick a fork in it, [insert other metaphor here]. Over this last visit to my friends in Caucasia, I realized that, despite all of my desperation for a man (see the last three years of bloggery for proof), I don’t actually want the domesticated life. Going to work, “hitting the gym,” and going home sounds un-fun. What about dreams? Don’t get me wrong—I definitely want someone to put a ring on it. But right now, the main reasons that appeals to me are: 1) I think rings are pretty and shiny; 2) having a wedding means that everyone will have to stand up when I walk into a room, which has always been a dream of mine; 3) I can finally get on that all-carb diet I can’t start until I’ve roped someone in forever.

I think I've been listening to too much Affirmation Nation With Bob Ducca--he's making me far too introspective.
Who's Bob Ducca, you ask?
Well, here he is!

You Don't Have to Go Far to Go INSIDE CAUCASIA

Sorry for the delayed blogging--I'm still regaining my strength after my intense journey into Caucasia. For some reason, it was even more nerve-racking than that time I lived in Australia, right in the center of it all. I think it's because of the shock--you don't expect to find such a non-diverse population in your same time zone in 2011. Add to that the abundance of nature and I felt so out of my element that I almost demanded that the toll booth worker stamp my passport!

Before I go into my visits with my married friends, I must show you a photograph of my #1 New Hampshire Fan:


Yes, that is a handlebar mustache. Yes, that is a Hawaiian shirt under his windbreaker. Yes, his head like a supremacist.
And yes, his hand is inappropriately close to my breast area.

I have arrived.

He didn't tell me his name, but he did tell me that I could "tug on these [his handlebars] whenever you want!!!"
No, there was no drink minimum.

All in all, I'd say the set went fine. I did, however, experience a mild fail: I completely forgot my train of thought during my set. I am not kidding. I was doing a lot of crowd work, thinking I'd need to fill my 20 minutes (and realizing that any and all Jewmor--Jew Humor--was lost on the crowd), and it just sidetracked me. I wasn't able to make my Tyler Perry references, nor could I reference anything else that took place in pop culture over the last 20 years.

And, mid-joke, I realized it was probably poor form to talk about comparing parenting to having a terminal illness at a breast cancer fundraiser. (#awkward) There was much awkward back-pedaling.

But all in all, I think the crowd was okay with it. It definitely wasn't my target demographic, so the fact that I got laughs at all--and wasn't actively boo'd offstage or heckled--is a success, I guess. It was a bit weird--as you all know, I'm used to highs and lows when it comes to emotions. When this set was done, I was relatively "meh." I didn't feel horrible or terrible--so I didn't really know how to cope. As I stood in the "talent area" watching the remainder of the show, a bald, old Caucasian man wearing a salmon-pink sweater approached. As he walked by to get to the bathroom (yes, the talent area was near the bathroom), he pointed his fist toward me. I wondered if this was his geriatric attempt at assaulting me but then I realized that he wanted to give me a fist bump!!!

Yes, guys, it happened. An old man gave me a fist bump. I guess he was the one who got my slavery humor.

Other than the show, I got to see some friends I hadn't seen in a while, which was nice. It was also a bit surreal, because they are both mature married couples, with property and children and such. My New Hampshire friends are out of control. Have you ever had a moment with someone where you just think, "How are you this White and I never knew it?" Well, yeah, that's what happened.

As we drove the two hours outside of Boston to their acreage, I watched as the number of bars on my cell phone decreased. As we drove up the winding backroads, I figured out that the trees outnumbered the people about 14 to 1. As we turned onto the private road that leads to their gorgeous house, I wondered if anyone would be able to hear me scream--not that I planned to, but I was just wondering.

We walked to the door and with a gentle push, it opened--they aren't even locking this shit up, y'all! You know it's backwoods when you don't have to say something when you see something and can just sleep without the door locked. The door opened and through the open back door, I could see the lady of the house--like I'd never seen her before.

She stood outside doling out food to the full-grown chickens in the chicken coop, with the 10-month-old baby on her hip!!

For those of you who can't imagine what this could look like, here's a visual aid:

She has become a pioneer wife, I thought to myself. It got really intense, though, when I had hit my bedtime and wanted to rest up before the big show. I couldn't tuck in, however, until the hubby had started a fire in the wood stove downstairs. WHAT?!

This historical relic kept my room both toasty warm and smelling of pine.

I was out of my element; I started having slavery flashbacks. I think part of why Caucasia enjoys living like it's the 1890s is because back then, they were running thangs! I mean, if I could travel back in time and bring my educational opportunities and tampons, I'd be willing to check out the days of yore, too. But as it stands, I'm just glad I'm in a time and place where hate crimes can at least be caught on camera phones and punished.

I gotta run and interview a student, but let's talk soon!

Mic Check!

When blogging on the plantation I do all my writing in a Word document so that if massa comes by it’ll look like I’m hard at work. This document has grown to 214 pages (and counting) and consists of 74,765 words. Clearly I know how to commit to things.
So why am I always so afraid I’m a failure?

I was up last night, tossing and turning, totally wired like ‘twas the night before Christmas. I couldn’t figure out why I was so anxious. Was it because I met a Deaf ex-convict with Maori-like tattoos who made me an origami crane?
Or because I’m doing a 20-minute set at a country club in New Hampshire on Saturday night?
Yep, I think that’s it.

I haven’t performed in over a week and haven’t found much time to hit an open mic, but I’m not really nervous about being on stage. I am, however, nervous about no one laughing at my jokes. I mean, New Hampshire—that’s a wild card of a state. Their motto is “Live Free or Die,” which you know appeals to Sojourner. But they’re 93.9% White (thanks, Wikipedia!), and most of that’s Canadian! Guys, this is Caucasia to the maxxxxxxxx.

Will they get my Harriet Tubman jokes? Will they think a gentrified vagina is the height of hilarity? Do they even have gentrification in New Hampshire? They did make same-sex marriage legal before NYC, so they definitely have a win there. I just hope some gays come out to the show! $5 from every ticket goes to the Susan G. Komen Foundation, so there should be plenty of boob-lovers in the house (what does that mean?). I need plenty of jokes in the ol’ back pocket, so that I can quickly shift gears if I start hearing crickets.

I’m gonna have to start writing out my set list. My first lineup is just all the jokes/ideas I think will work, then I start to screen them and organize it a bit. Here’s what I’ve got so far (yes, this is actually how they are written in my notebook):

• Why I don’t like nature
• Netflix
• Babies = terminal illness – we’re gonna beat this thing
• Fucked up 7-hour job interview
• Work ethics—you don’t pay me to care
• God as dad
• Drink to feel pretty
• Harriet Tubman going to the Montreal Jazz Festival
• INSIDE CAUCASIA
• Jewboo
• Why it’s so cold in the D
• Low Standards/OK Cupid

I don’t know, we’ll see what happens. Friday night I’m staying with friends who live in the New Hampshire countryside. I swear, if they didn't have a baby for me to play with, I would probably have a Shining-style breakdown out in the backwoods. Saturday night, I’m staying with some of the other performers and probably sharing a bed with a random. Wish me luck!

I Can't Keep This To Myself!

Guys,
KWalsh just IM’d me a link to a music video, claiming that it "might be the second coming of 2gether."

Of course, anything that might even hint at 2gether immediately got my attention. Work ethics be damned--I clicked the link.
And I was rewarded.
This “music” video, featuring the apparently non-fake boy band Heart2Heart, is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Please, experience it with me:

For those of you who used to read my takes on Teen Mom and 16 & Pregnant, you know that I can’t watch youth ruin their lives without live blogging. It’s the only way I can begin to process my emotions. And Heart2Heart is certainly pushing some buttons. Here goes.

(italics indicate song lyrics.)

0:01
Okay, so are these supposed to be the lights of a spaceship? Was this done on iMovie?

0:13
The blonde one looks like Ashlee Simpson. Why is ze winking at me?
The two ethnically ambiguous ones must be a nod to post-racial America. What’s with the cinnamon-spiced highlight guy? Is he wearing a pair of diamond earrings? (probably purchased from Claire’s Accessories—this video had a budget of $12 and a footlong sandwich from Subway)
Is he licking his tongue out suggestively? Ew.

0:17
Is that Lance Bass under a blue light? Why is he looking like a vampire?! Ugh, Lance, I have you to blame for this? It’s always the quiet (and secretly gay) ones that surprise you.

0:28
Chad? Yes, it's me, Blacktress. I have a few questions:

1: Why are you wearing a letter jacket with D on it? Your name starts with a C, your band starts with an H. Who’s supervising this script?

Why is your eyeliner so thick?

0:28
Um, these girls look 45. That blonde one’s clearly been on Miami Ink.

0:50
Heart2…. Heart is back / FB chat poppin’ on my Mac.
They’ve been here before and I didn’t know about it?

0:54
I like your status / two thumbs up / I met you last week / playing flip cup.

Why is he sitting on the spaceship floor by a car? What’s with all the chains on his vest? Chad, you need to get it together and let go of the flat iron, the DEP, and the All I’ve ever gotten from a guy I met playing flip cup is a nasty hangover and an STD test scare.

As KWalsh says: I honestly cannot abide the one that does the most singing.

Accept this request/ accept my terms of service / the message has been sent / and all I wanna do is put a heart on your page / heart on your page—let’s make it official.

Agree to terms of service? Is this a legally binding contract?! Do you think he wants to steal the girl’s identity so that he can buy more hair gel and face decals?

1:25
Okay, why is this Nordic Ashlee-Simpson-looking fellow wearing a down parka, headphones, and no shirt in what appears to be a boiler room?

1:32
I don’t wanna play Farmville / I just wanna play for real
The intensity with which he sings that line is baffling to me.

1:34
Okay, seriously, that’s not even hair, you elvish, raven-haired boy. He is wearing a helmet.
Who does the brown-haired one look like?
I need to look up "famous lesbians from the 1990s" to jog my memory.

Oh, right, I got it: They are all giving me Jodie Foster in various stages of her career.

1:42
Multicolored backgrounds for each guy—now we’re talkin’ production values!
Oh my god, why is Ashlee Simpson reaching hir's hand out to me?

I don’t even think he’s mouthing the correct words.

2:00
Okay, Chad is straight up channeling Hedwig at this point.

2:09
Okay, now that Mario Lopez/Dora the Explorer hybrid isn’t even mouthing the words! Do you think Chad is the only native English speaker, which is why he was given the lead?
LANCE BASS, HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE GOOD NAME OF BOY BANDS WITH THIS FOOLERY???

Or, as KWalsh notes: these kids are just a bunch of haircuts! IN MY DAY ‘N SYNC BROUGHT THE GOODS

Ain’t that the gospel truth?

2:09
This is the longest 3 minutes and 21 seconds of my life.

2:25
Press that button, double click / Let’s make it facebook official tonight.
Is “facebook official” new slang for having consensual intercourse?

2:35
He just said “Dance Break”! …. And then went on to show the shittiest dance break in the history of boy bands. Does it count as dancing if they’re just forming geometric tableaus? This is some Cabinet of Dr. Caligari meets Bring it On: All or Nothing type of randomness.

3:04
Did you see how dramatically Chad’s front bangs flipped?! Those things are deadly weapons.

3:21
It’s over. We made it through, guys!

Okay, is it just me or was there an abundance of spirit fingers in this video?

Ain't She a Woman?! / I am the 34.3 percent.

Hey y'all!

Jewboo showed me this video yesterday and I just had to share. This little girl is my (S)hero of the Week. In addition to her hard-hitting questions to financial district massas, I'm loving her Just for Me perm and CIA-agent-style trench. Her ability to stand up to the major power players in Caucasia is inspiring. Give it a look-see. What do you think?


In other news:
[Jewboo, stop reading!]

I found out today that I'm 34.3% body fat.
Ew.

I had a nutrition consultation this morning, which involved testing my resting metabolic rate. To prep for this test, buff trainer Curtis had to take my vitals. Although my weight has slightly decreased (thanks, Weight Watchers!), apparently my body fat percentage qualifies me for The Biggest Loser.

As I sat down, contemplating my inner obesity (I think my blood type is cookies 'n' cream), I flipped through a magazine. Steve, the other trainer, came in and started chatting with Curtis. Surrounded by all the gym equipment with two attractive men talking as though I wasn't there, I started to have a flashback to 11th grade phys ed.
"Should I go in the waiting room while you set up?" I asked.
"If you want to," said Curtis, "but it doesn't really matter."
"Well, I don't want to interrupt y'all, bro'in out and all."
"You can bro out with us if you want," said Steve.
"No, I can't. I have 34.3% body fat."

Clearly, I'm typing this post while doing squats.

What makes the RMR test even more depressing is that, in order to accurately assess your target, you have to breathe through a tube for 10 minutes (that's not the problem). The demoralization comes when they attach a Hannibal Lecter-like piece of headgear to make sure that no air escapes the tube. Your nasal cavity is effectively closed off, and any attempt at a decent hair day is ruined. As I sat there, wondering how one could even go about making a suit of someone else's skin, I realized that it's probably time to stop eating my feelings. But I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with friends now that I don't "grab a drink" after work. I guess we can just.... drink herbal tea? Guh.

Target body fat percentage is 18-24%.
I asked the doctor if he wouldn't mind contacting some of my favorite bakeries to let them know I'm no longer welcome. If he doesn't, I can't promise I'll hold up my end of the bargain.

How are you?!

SHOCKtober Fest!*

*This title in no way relates to the following post.

Guys, I am so sorry it's been forever since I posted. There's been so much going on--much of it ripe for bloggery--but I've been so busy that sitting down and writing it all out has been impossible. Now, of course, it's been 2 weeks and there's no way I can condense it all. But let's give it the ol'-liberal-arts-college try, shall we?

9/29/11
I. am. reeling.

I just finished the final book in The Hunger Games trilogy and I can't even cope. I actually re-read the last three pages twice before finally closing the book. It was simply so intense I couldn't let it be over. A tightly wrought political thriller for the tween set has somehow turned my world upside down. Katniss Everdeen is further proof that you don't have to be black to be a strong black woman.

I am still shaken and stirred, with a twist of lime in me. Suzanne Collins took my breath away, Top Gun style. I've decided to add her to my list of (s)heroes.

10/1/11
I'm heading to LA, guys! Los Angeles! The city of angels and demons and most of the cast of Angels & Demons. I'm going to a voiceover event produced by my VO coach in New York. I'm not one for 48-hour jet-sets, but my mom thinks I need to invest in my dreams, which means attending this event, so I will do so. I have no idea what to expect.

10/3-10/5

LA is cool, but I couldn't live here. I did, however, meet a pretty blacktress from Texas who moved here to become a star. She was very domineering, which I really didn't mind all that much. I think the best part of our forced closeness was her gory, detailed account of her stalker attack a year ago. Of course, it was really terrifying and upsetting, but my first thought, as she explained that her Colgate smile was actually porcelain (because her stalker attacked her and knocked her teeth out), was "Oh my god, you had a stalker? That is so A-list. Have you sent a treatment to Lifetime (television for women)?"

The highlight of my trip was meeting hotel employee Tre Fabrice, who moved to LA three years ago "for the fashion." When I asked where he moved from, he revealed that he was a Detroit native.

I immediately began singing T-Baby's anthem.
"Nah, I'm mad at that," he said as he stretched out on the lobby couch (why wasn't he working?). "Everybody been makin' fun of me for that."

I asked him if he'd read any of my cousin's hood tales and he said no. I linked him up to Amazon and he was quite taken with the synopsis of his latest page-turner. After giving him my cousin's info--he wanted to contact him about being involved in a non-profit he's starting (I kid you not)--he urged me to stay in New York City. I told him he didn't have to worry.

LA is so intense with the healthiness. My friend and I went to a diner and even the diner was on Atkins. I asked for a glass of milk to go with my "7-grain pancakes," and the waiter goes, "Would you like soy milk, almond, milk, rice milk, hemp--"

I want milk milk, Los Angeles! Give me some skim stuff out of an animal I can find on a farm!

Don't get me wrong, y'all--I'm not against vegetarians and vegans, and I do believe animals have feelings. I just cannot stand a high-and-mighty non-meat eater acting like they can't wait to spend their 75th birthday jumping on my bloated belly like it's a trampoline. Just cause you don't eat meat doesn't make you a life-winner. How can it be okay to turn a bean into a nugget??? Everyone was so into their substitutes. And those bitches LOVE. TO. JUICE.

You know, drink a mixture of vegetables and fruits as a meal.

Speaking of juicing, they also love using nouns as verbs--juice. summer. veg. UGH.

That about sums it up, I guess. There's more I'd love to share, but ever since the blog became an un-safe space (needing to defend and explain every turn of phrase and humor-motivated generalization, etc), I'll just cut to the present......which brings us to today.

Last night I did a set at Broadway Comedy Club and it might have been one of my worst stage moments ever. I ate it so hard last night.

That’s comedy speak for “getting no laughs and having no jokes hit”—taken from the idea of “eating shit.”

Being on stage was painful. I felt like Carrie at the prom—except, in this case, I wanted them to laugh and they wouldn’t. Those bright stage lights may have well been pig’s blood, as they soaked me in a sticky liquid of shame and self-loathing that I still can’t get off.

Carrie, there’s no amount of Dove body wash that’ll get that scent out of your hair. After all, Dove is for real women, and you’re clearly a shell of yourself.

As I stood on stage, staring into the faces of white people who didn’t know who Harriet Tubman was or why “Caucasia” is a funny word, I had no way of winning them back. This was a set for TV and I wasn’t supposed to address the audience—meaning, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS?!” wasn’t gonna fly for the cameras. It was just really hard because I’d killed it (comedy speak for “slaying the audience with one’s rapier wit) the night before at Therapy, one of Hell’s Kitchen’s best gay bars. I mean, applause breaks and everything. I felt like I was at home.
Honestly, y’all, it was a straight-up Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List moment.


I know exactly how she feels.


Tonight I'm doing a set at another club, this time with family and friends in attendance. Not just mamadukes but also some of her coworkers, which makes me really nervous. I mean, it’s one thing to fail, but to embarrass my mom in front of her friends….let’s just say I better bring it on all or nothing like the love-child of Gabrielle Union and Hayden Panetierre.

I'm sorry I've been gone so long--I won't do it again.

L.Y.L.A.S!

--Blacktress

Now More Than Ever

Is how much I need to blog.

I just got back from round 1 of the dentist (remember how I have to put my teeth on layaway?) and my mouth is still numb. I can’t really talk, which you know is tantamount to oppression. I think the dentist gave me a bit too much novacaine, cause it’s over 3 hours later and I’m still feeling like Two-Faced. I guess I only have myself to blame, though—when he asked if I was allergic to anything, I said “just pain.” He’s a fun, Ken Jeong type of guy, so I can’t hate on him.

I am, however, hoping that my steady work even in the face of dental pain will be duly noted among my colleagues so that after my next long lunch, I can return with my head held high.

I’ve been slack in the blog world, mostly because I’m just a broke-down blacktress. And as my mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and no one will ever want to be your friend.” So, you know, I’m trying to zip my lip with the negativity. But I do want to draw your attention to some ch-ch-ch-changes:

CALENDAR OF UPCOMING SHOWS
So, it seems that the reason no one calls me is because they’re getting all the info on the internets. With that in mind, I’ve decided to do some cross-promotion on the blog. To the right (to the right, everything you own in the box to the right!) you’ll find a list of upcoming shows where I will be providing laughter to what I hope is an audience of likeminded freedom writers. You should totally come!

WRITERS STOPPED WRITIN’! :(
I had to remove a few names from my blogroll, folks. It’s not that I don’t love them, it’s that they don’t love the internet! Their blogs have ceased. I have, however, added a funny blog of random writings called Gutes Beispiel. You should read it. But not while you’re high—it’ll make your head explode.

A friend of mine recently left for a monthlong sojourn to Sweden and she came to the ultimate Sojourner for advice on navigating Caucasia. As someone who has been inside the belly of the beast and lived to tell, I was more than happy to impart some wisdom gleaned over several solo odysseys. Below is an excerpt from my email to her. Perhaps it will serve you well on your next international journey.

Caucasia Cheat Sheet

dictated but not read

Random "Facts":

• Swedes are kind, but curt. No dilly-dallying, no small talk in the shoppes--they'll say hi, they'll answer a question if you ask it, but they don't come up every 2 minutes, asking if you need help with stuff (which I LOVE).
• It's cold and dark--get up and at 'em early to do your thing before a tween vampire turns you into her lover.
• They don't really sell OTC things we're used to getting. So bring your Advil cold & sinus, cranberry supplements, and Nyquil.
• Sometimes the letter "K" is pronounced "Sh". So, you know, the signs advertising a "KOK" aren't as funny as we'd like them to be.
• There are no brown people, really. So fully expect to see:

White people with dreadlocks (guh)
People in blackface (not all the time, but, you know, it's not unheard of to attend a jungle-themed party and dress like "natives," including makeup.)

To make sure you don't end up in a pit of despair, I suggest bringing:

• A few of your favorite DVDs (or download to your comp)--maybe it was just Australia, but I had a hard time getting Netflix and Hulu out of the US, and even some YouTubes don't play when I was in Europe. Also, DVDs are coded by regions--a Swedish DVD won't play in your laptop. In those early days of jetlag and overwhelmed-ness, nothing takes the edge off like a couple seasons of Arrested Development.
• Cheat sheet of vocab words. It sounds silly, but having a list of foods really helped me when I was in Sweden, Paris, and Germany. Going to the grocery store or a restaurant, I didn't have such an intense breakdown because I knew which one was cake (kaka) and which one was pie (paj)--and I could order from a menu (many will be translated, though) without being scared a fish head would show up on my plate.
• I'd bring a towel, just so you have one that's yours. Of course, I always bring a washcloth, but being Caucasian yourself, perhaps that doesn't apply here.

Frightday!

Pop Quiz:
Which of the following things happened to a blacktress this week?
a. The intern hid the tin of Kit Kats from me yesterday afternoon because--and I fuckin' quote--“You were doing so well, eating an apple and all. I didn’t want to tempt you and you’d already had enough.”
b. I missed not one but TWO chances to showcase my skills to the NBC network’s head of talent diversity.
c. I received a phone call from someone telling me that, “Wednesday’s a big day. I’m coming out of the closet to the community… as a singer-songwriter.”
d. I discovered that the Duane Reade pharmacy cashier knows me by face. Clearly, I’m getting too many meds.
e. All of the above.


I’ve been feeling very un-gifted and black lately. Last night was particularly rough, as I performed in a Gaysian’s hilarious sketch version of “A Raisin in the Sun” as part of an NBC showcase. Of course, it's always fun to perform, but here I was as the best, brightest, and brownest in the comedy community were showcased, and I was serving as mere blackup in an Asian man’s production. Of course, he ended up winning the showcase, cause he’s hilar, but I had the biggest—or smallest?—pity party for myself last night. It involved cereal, staring at ice cream in the freezer, and watching 30 Rock. I had flashb(l)acks to middle school, as I realized how much I was out of the black kid loop yet again. I hadn't even known about the auditions, let alone the showcase, until the Gaysian asked me to reprise my role as the Ruth to his Walter Lee.

It was fun and all, but I couldn't help but feel like this precious baby animal (h/t Michael, the man who brought us Big Freedia):

This delicate, half-blind red seal has been shunned from his colony because of his color.
Look at him, standing on the rocky shore as his black brethren mix and mingle in the distance. I'm gonna send him a copy of this book:




I mean, look at these eyes. How can you not want to be his friend?

Hey guys! What's up?!

Oh, you like fish? I like it, too. Hahahhaa.

We have so much in common.

Can I come to the ocean depths with you?

Let's be friends?

Riding the Elevator in a Post-Racial America

Conversation on an Elevator

The time is 4 minutes ago. I'm on the elevator heading back up to my office after grabbing some organic fruits at Trader Joe's. It's me and a white-bearded Caucasian fellow who works on the 4th floor.

Me [on the phone with a friend]: All right, girl, I gotta get back up to the plantation. I'll see you Saturday. Bye! [I hang up.]

Man [smiling to himself, looking straight ahead. then, in a sing-song voice]: Pickin' some cotton, pickin some cotton'.

Me: Mmm-hmmm. Always toiling.

DING.

The elevator opens on 4.

Man: Have a good day.

He exits.

I have to find out what happens on the 4th floor.

Workplace Dynamics in a Post-Racial America

Guys, my boss won’t stop calling me “Ebony Beyond" and it's getting annoying.

Wait, have I not told you about this?

So, last week he was in a friendly mood and we were discussing drag names. [By “discussing,” I mean he was standing by my desk (cheating out, of course) but talking loudly enough that the whole office could hear him.] We went on a tangent about Bette Davis, during which I said, “If I was a drag queen, I’d totally be Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, all haggard and tragic and living in the past.” To this, massa replied, “No, your drag name would be Ebony Beyond,” before walking back down to his office.

(You know a former drag queen always knows to exit on a laugh line.)

It was funny at the time and maybe even amazing. I felt as though I’d been knighted, a la Judy Dench. We had a laugh about it the next day, and that was that.
Or so I thought.

Two days later, Massa began addressing me as “Ebony Beyond” in all email correspondence. At worst, it's a serious HR violation and I could sue the company for enough money to fund my dreams; at best, it's awkward. Here are some examples.* All of them have been copied and pasted directly, with no editing.:
I got to work (late) this morning and had this email waiting for me:
Hey Ebony---Do you have contact info handy for [so-and-so]?

[When I assured him I'd be able to get some information from an contributor, even though the contrib was being difficult, he gave the following reply.]
Ok---if anybody can reign ‘em in its Ebony Beyond Belief

And this one just takes the cake. The matter-of-factness with which he calls me Ebony and uses text-message language is just out of control.:
Ebony--- think we are covered—thanks though for jumping in. BTW are you thinking to revisit some of these artists in the subsequent issues—they seen deserving of additional coverage—esp the one you sent yesterday—omg hipster wc—who would have thunk it!

Um, did my massa write “omg” in business-related correspondence? I swear, this is the same one who will give you dagger eyes if you disagree with him in public. I feel like I work for Demi Lovato. I need to call up Obama at the UN and tell him what's going on--he'd have me sitting on a settlement in no time.

I guess I should be glad I have a nickname because it means I'm in massa's good graces. I got to work 2 hours late this morning because of a--you guessed it--doctor's appointment. I've been having back spasms and extreme pain that was so bad that I couldn't sleep at all on Monday night. And I don't mean "I didn't sleep at all" in a I-slept-but-tossed-and-turned-and-woke-up-a-few-times way. I mean I straight-up laid still on an incline and tried to stop the pain from shooting down my arm as I watched 1995 hit film Masterminds (Vincent Kartheiser's best work) and a portion of Terminator 3 (it just made my back hurt even more). It even hurt to lay down. Y'all, when it hurts to be lazy, you know something up!

At this morning's appointment I learned that my back muscles are so hard they're practically calcified. When the doctor touched my shoulders, she actually jumped back a bit and furrowed her brow, like she was in a scene from Aliens and a creature was gonna pop out. Good news: I got muscle relaxants. Bad news: I'll never leave the house again.

*I never thought I’d see the day when I’d search for “Ebony” in my Outlook inbox.

Friday Mash-up Post

Hey friends!

How are you going? Please excuse my lack of bloggery--trust me, it hurts me more than it hurts you. I'm all out of whack and speaking in Aussie slang because I have two gals from Sydneytown staying with me. It's kinda surreal to come home and find two people I haven't seen in more than 2 years getting dolled up in my bathroom. Although guests are stressful, these are two women I adore. One is the daughter of my Aussie mum, and her roommate, Prue, is my ex-wife. (We were facebook-married for quite a time, but being a real-life lesbian, Prue found our status to be a real clit-block.) Our love, however, never waned.

A shared love of Pink (the singer, not the Victoria's Secret clothing line), vodka-cokes, and karaoke led to many a long night on their balcony.

It was she who lent me the first book in the Twilight series. I am forever in her debt.

I'm so happy they're here, but you guys know how I need time to openly sob and eat ice cream in my underwear at the end of a long day. Having visitors means I'm in 24/7 stress-mode. I came home to find that they'd used the countertop sponge to wash the dishes and I had to say a serenity prayer. I had a dream last night that they didn't know how to turn off the stove and left the gas on and we almost died.

****THIS JUST IN: I GOT CALLED BACK FOR THE MICROSOFT COMMERCIAL!!!****

Did I mention that I'd auditioned for this last week? Well, anyway, yeah. I left feeling awkward and was supposed to have been notified by 9/12, but when I didn't hear back, I forgot about it. You can imagine my joy when Martin (my new favorite gay) called me up and told me that I'm going in on Tuesday!

*****BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOG POST****

I think I'm just really nervous about the showcase tonight cause my mom is coming. But I've been working on a new opener based on my African ancestry that's been getting some good responses. (I'm hoping the 30 Rock rep casts me as Toofer's sister who thinks he's as much of a blowhard as everyone else.)

I think I'm also being cray cray because I haven't had private time with Jewboo in over a week! Guys, I'm straight-up longing, 19th-century style. It's gotten to the point where I'm keeping a picture of us on my bedside table. Is he in Brooklyn or Afghanistan--either way, I am holding on to memories. It's hard when you're both working by day and trying to have dreams by night. Yesterday, all I ate was a probiotic yogurt and a trader joe's café latte in a can! I'm sitting at my desk, eating a lunch of grapes and....GRAPES! That's it, y'all.

Oh, before I go, I must share this inappropriately angry email I got from a reader of my magazine:

I must complain about the adhesive you use to attach mailing labels to the covers of ---- magazine. I subscribe to several magazines. All have labels which peel off easily and leave no residue. I tried pulling the labels off the Summer and Fall issues of ---- and was left with areas of a sticky substance which I could not remove. I tried removing the gum with rubber cement thinner which resulted only in removing the ink on the cover. I had to cut the corner off the issue to get rid of the gumminess. This, of course, was counterproductive as the reason for removing the label in the first place was to see the artwork in full. How about changing your technique so we all can enjoy the artwork.

Really, lady? Really? Our mailing-label technique???? How about you end sentences with the proper punctuation and go take your frustration out on the kids who never return your calls? Here's my drafted reply:

Dear [Judith Light],

I am very sorry to hear that you're having such trouble with our mailing labels. Perhaps you should purchase the magazine on the newsstands or not have an address. You seem like a scrappy, pugnacious woman who could fend for herself on the streets--maybe even become some sort of gang leader. I mean, rubber cement thinner for a mailing label? Judith, your talents are wasted on reading our magazine. I have attached a jpeg of the painting as it appeared on the cover--no corners cut at all!

Hope this helps. Thank you for your continued interest in our publication.

Best,

Sojourner

I would like to end this post with a little video--you know, cause it's Fri-day, Fri-day, Fri-ee-i-ee-i-day. How's about an awesome fake trailer?! Manic pixie dreamgirls drive me cray!

Blacktresses & The Blues

**I started writing this post on Friday. Today is Tuesday. That should give you a sense of where I'm at.**

Guys, I am so dead tired. Don’t you ever wake up and have one of those days where it’s like, “Yeah, I could totally kill myself right now and it wouldn’t even be a big deal.”?

No? Just me? Well, anyway, that’s where I’m at.

I hung out with my mom last night and, as always, it was a mixed bag—a dash of hope, humbling gratitude, a bit of self-loathing, gut-wrenching frustration, and a feeling of powerlessness that makes a gal eat bread pudding for breakfast—natch. We had dinner with my voice over coach and it was straight out of Waiting to Exhale. They got along swimmingly, which I’d expected, but also banded together to point out several of my shortcomings.

You know, like how I don’t “invest in myself.”
And how I “dress like someone who doesn’t care.”
And how I “don’t focus on what really matters”
Oh yeah—and how I need to purchase some really good wigs and hair pieces if I want to be seen as a professional on stage and in auditions.

I feel like a character in a Carson McCullers novel.

Of course, it always helps to keep it in perspective. After all, I could be little Paisley here:

When questioned, her mother didn’t really get all the hoopla. “Well, at this pageant there was an option to do celebrity-wear,” the mom said. “And we thought about what we could wear with her being a brunette, and Julia Roberts is my favorite actress of all time. I thought it was real cute to do Julia. She’s 3. If she was 10 I never would have considered this. But as young as she is I thought it was very comical.”

With that in mind, I’m trying to shake off mom’s words, but the timing couldn’t really be worse—this Sunday is round 1 of NBC’s StandUp for Diversity auditions, where oppressed comics can finally get their reparations.

Last year, I didn’t even make it past the first round.
I was beaten by an 11-year-old boy with braces and rubber bands who talked about putting vodka in his cereal.

Needless to say, I’m nervous. And I only have 60 seconds to prove myself. If I win them over, I get to go on to the second round, which allows me 2 whole minutes to bring the pain. If I pass that I get to be on the showcase the following night.

I know, I mustn’t count my chickens. But it could be fun.
If only I could find a way to be hilarious in 60 seconds and stop thinking about how my natural hair makes me look like, “Whoopi Goldberg, not caring, wearing a moo-moo.”

I'm gonna go get a pedicure and re-watch "Good Hair."

Blacktress out!

Seriously, Guys, Never Forget.

Today, 9/12/2011, marks the five-year anniversary of Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds.

In the interim, he has attempted to establish himself as a real actor, and although Alpha Dog was certainly no Crossroads, I'd like him to remember which side his bread is buttered...on.

After a true day of remembrance, we must NEVER FORGET that the man has one of the finest falsettos since Minnie Riperton and dance moves that put Bieber to shame.

Justin, lovin' you is easy cause YOU SING AND DANCE.

Look, Justin, I know the death of Michael Jackson must have been hard--it was a dark time for all of us. Perhaps you just felt like the pressure was really on once your idol was RIP. But you mustn't hide your rhythmic light under a bushel. You owe it to us to do what you're good at--singing and dancing.

Justin, you need to dance like EVERYBODY is watching. Because we are. We are watching and waiting for you to stop pretending you invented Napster. You brought sexy back but it went away again. FIND IT, JUSTIN. FIND IT AND BRING IT TO ME.

To strengthen my plea, I'd like to show a video released last week that I have been dying to post. Although it may seem like I'm behind the times, one of my friends featured in the video sent it to me the moment it hit the information superhighway. I wanted to wait until the day of remembrance to post it. If you haven't seen it, enjoy.

Justin, if you're reading and watching, please hear this humble plea. Don't hold it against them for using one black person for a nano-second. Their intentions are true.