Twelve days since my last blog post?! That's a fuckin' abomination.
How are you guys? I'm a bit weary, but that's nothing new. I've had a lot of potential posts in mind but never really thought they were worth following through--or, rather, I was up against deadlines for work and after cranking out articles with such titles as "WaterMedia Meaning," I didn't think I was fit to walk the earth, much less sully the blogsphere. Luckily, the magazine has gone to the printer and I've got some breathing room for a week or so. And you know what "breathing room" means: lunches with my main gays, doctor's appointments to check on my brain (remember that ish last year?), doing some creative writing, and engaging in bloggery. So here we are!
Here are some things I wanted to share last week, presented in "mini-post" form:
Title:A POST-RACIST AMERICA?
Abstract
The 30 Rock role for which I auditioned was played by a WHITE WOMAN.
I can't even write more lest I end up writing a 30-page post.
Title:THE WAR ON TERROR
Abstract
Last weekend, I was lazing around the house and calling it organizing when I turned to Jewboo, who was washing dishes.
"Will you judge me if I take a nap now?"
He turned to me, with the confused look of a person being asked an interview question that's clearly a trick (you know, like, "What's your greatest weakness?"). "Um....are you asking my permission?"
"I don't know. Yes? Is that bad?"
As you can imagine, I'm having a tough time with cohabitation. Not because of anything Jewboo has or hasn't done--it's all in my head. You know how I like to dissect everything and try to figure out why so that I can, in turn, manipulate in hopes of achieving my dreams (usually fame and undying love)? Well, that's cute when it's pithy and can be closed in a Firefox tab. And it's acceptable when it happens once a week on the nights that I spend with my lover. But when it's a daily occurrence, it not only strains the relationship but it also taxes the mind. And I don't know how to stop.
The innocuous question, "What do you want for dinner?" reaches my hammer, anvil, and stirrup sounding like, "Are you seriously going to just eat ice cream as a meal?" I then feel the need to over-explain my behavior and request unnecessary approval.
Guys, it turns out I'm a terrorist--relax, government Google spies--I'm a "process terrorist." I learned this phrase from an insightful older gay gentleman who has been with his live-in Latin lover for nearly two decades. While explaining my new domestic status, he said, "You know, when I first met [Juan] I thought he was a bit dim cause he was so drama free. Turns out that he just doesn't feel the need to analyze everything to death. You're destroying everything by trying to dissect it. You're making everyday life fearful. You've got to stop."
Lord knows I have no desire for 72 virgins,* so I really do need to get it together.
*What woman wants to spend the afterlife saying, "No, not there. Up. UP! Okay...no, it's fine."?
Title:FAMILY VALUES
Abstract
I received the following text not once, not twice, but three times (the cray cray) from my cousin who writes hood tales:
[Title removed] the sexiest erotic thriller is now available 4 sale b4 mothers day. set in a web of lust lies love deception drama and abortion.
And here I was, wondering what on earth to get for the mother who has everything!
Sorry for the delay. As you can imagine, the last week has been a flurry of packing, schlepping,* and weariness--but there's been no shortage of blog material. Let me share some highlights--or, rather, lowlights--of the "Great Migration of 2012."
Last Thursday was the beginning of substantial preparation, and it involved a trip to Ikea with my mom.
No, not Jewboo. Why? Well, when it comes to interior design, meticulous planning, and troubleshooting my poor choices, mom's got Jewboo beat by a landslide. She watches HGTV 24/7 and seeing as I consider vajazzling a bold creative choice, I needed her expertise. Add to that the fact that 30 Rock is my design for living, and I just couldn't risk Ikea tearing Jewboo and I apart.
As we attempted to lug disparate pieces of birch veneer onto our trollies (which, of course, had to have sticky wheels that wouldn't respond to steering), my mother went from "Design on a Dime" to "Turn on You on a Dime." I went back to pick up and item and we were separated like two Mormon missionaries just days after arriving in a treacherous foreign land.^ Let's just say that by the time we got in the car, we weren't speaking...because that is what happened.
Because I don't like toiling, sweating, or feeling dumb, I opted for Ikea's delivery and assembly service for the most complicated pieces: the bed frame, the office desk, and the tv stand. As Jewboo sat in Brooklyn, attempting to organize and pack 30 years worth of stuff, I sat in the new apartment waiting for deliveries to arrive. What took place on that day were interactions unlike any I could have ever dreamed of.
They all started with me profusely apologizing because I live on the top floor of a 5th-floor walkup. As burly, surly men hauled dining tables and chairs upstairs, I offered to help and was met with BPEs--"'Bitch, please' eyes." At around 5pm, Chris from Ikea arrived. He called to say that he couldn't find a parking spot and needed me to come down and hold the door while he emptied the truck.
"It's just you?!" I said with what may have been mistaken for disgust and disdain.
I was stressed out and worried--I had 11 different boxes totaling 200+ pounds and they'd just sent one guy. I'd warned them it was a walk-up. I'd hoped there'd at least be a spotter!
I offered to help and he looked at me like I had 3 heads before telling me to just "sit tight." He then proceeded to carry every single box up 5 flights of stairs.
I offered him water. I offered him food. I offered him a warm air mattress. He declined all of it.
"It's just a workout. That's all it is," he said through heavy breaths as he wiped sweat off his brow.
I was officially frightened. No one could be that righteous about heavy lifting unless he'd experienced worse. Every time he came in with a new piece, I stood up because I felt like an asshole for reclining when he was toiling. Once he was done, it was time to start assembling. Over the course of the five hours it took him to assemble items, we really got to know each other--and by that, I mean I got to know about him.
For the first half hour, he talked about the importance of exercise and supported his points with loose quotes from the Bible. "Do you believe in God?" he began. "You know God says by the sweat of your brow comes the strength of your body. That's truth."
I don't know why he needed to question my faith before saying that. I think we all know we need our 30 minutes a day because Michelle Obama says so.
Within the first 5 minutes, I knew he had to have been institutionalized in some way, because everything was really intense, like he wasn't used to having casual interactions with fellow humans and he got most of his information from a prison library. He didn't just make statements, he offered 10 different synonyms, stressing the least important parts of his conversation with such conviction he had to have been convicted.
I don't know if I'm explaining this well. Let me turn it over to Kevin Hart, who really captures the essence of such a man.
Take, for instance, Chris's thoughts on his physical appearance: "Am I bigger than I should be right now? Yes, at this moment, as we speak, presently, I am not at the weight I should be for my height. I am 204 and I should be at a buck-eighty, a buck-seventy-five. I should be approximately 30 pounds less than I am. It is just a fact that I am larger than I should be."
Um, okay. #uncomfortable #lifetimemomentoftruth
He also kept asking me if I was "following" him, as though he'd been used to talking to methadone addicts who were prone to nodding off.
Turned out that Chris wasn't an Ikea employee but actually worked for a company to whom Ikea outsources it's delivery and assembly. (Turns out Ikea's own people can't even put the shit together! You know that's F'd) Luckily, he had experience with all of the items I purchased, so it only took him FIVE HOURS to put everything together.
WTF?! Who has that kind of time? Imagine if I'd tried to do any of that on my own, or if Jewboo and I had sat there struggling with the pictionary-esque directions? I would have started crying within 20 minutes and then stormed out to get a cupcake.
As he moves on to the second item, Chris tells me that I'm missing not one but two pieces needed for the bedframe to be ready for use: the midbeam and the slats. "But it said there were 3 parts to the item and I have 3 boxes!" I yelped helplessly. "Yeah, but you have to get these two things separately," Chris said. "They must be purchased in addition to the 3 pieces. It's additional. They didn't even tell you, did they?" No, they did not, Incarcerated Chris! (InCHRISerated?)
Ikea needs to stop bullshittin' and just change their logo:
Chris explained what I'd need to do once I purchased the pieces (which you know involved a lot of repetition) and told me it'd be fine. He then went back to discussing physical fitness, and explained why ping-pong "is the greatest form of exercise that God gave man."
Hear him out:
"What was the first form of exercise? Fighting. Think about it: you use your body, you build strength, you can do it anywhere. It's man's instinct. [at this point I start to text friends: If you don't hear from me in 30 minutes, send out the dogs.] I mean, I can fight. I used to fight and I'm telling you, I'd be sweating more than I am now. But we can't do that as our exercise. Why? Because we'd hurt our bodies. It's too much stress and risk on the human body. And it's illegal, too [he laughs awkwardly]. Yeah, you'll get in trouble.
"Okay, what's next after fighting? Football. Again, too much physical injury. It's dangerous, no matter how much padding you wear. Then what? Baseball--please!" [I didn't say anything.] "Swimming is good for building flexibility, but there's no strength. Have you seen pro swimmers? They're weak. Ok, yeah, running, that's something, you're on to something." [Again, I didn't say anything.] "But runners are weak, too. They have endurance but they're all bones. Their bodies cannibalize themselves. It's all bone.
"And then there's ping-pong. You ever get hit with a ping-pong? It doesn't feel like nothing. Whether you hit it 60 miles an hour, the most you'll get is a red mark. And you're in combat. You're against your fellow man, but you're never in physical contact. I'm on my side, you're on your side. Always. There's no touching. NONE. At most, I throw you the ball. It's a workout, for real. Believe me. For the record I am saying it's the best exercise. You can quote me. I lost 60 pounds playing ping-pong."
What. on. earth.
It was the longest 5 hours of my life, made worse by the fact that I had no food to eat. Things started to get less intense once Chris asked if he could listen to music as he worked. "SWEET GOD PLEASE!" I thought as I said, "yeah, get in the zone."
He put the speaker at top volume on his iPhone and proceeded to blast 80s rock songs by Huey Lewis and the News, which only made him even more of an enigma.
If only I'd known that Chris would be the most steadfast of all the men who I'd meet over the next week. For the last 5 days our toilet hasn't worked, our shower dribbles like a public-school water fountain, and one of our dining chairs arrived broken and took 4 days to replace. When I called various men in charge, I discovered that the Ikea model had become universal. I was on my own Les Miz style, feeling very third world in my own (brand new) apartment! Jewboo and I have managed to make it through, however, and have actually grown closer (there's nothing like admitting to peeing in the shower to make a relationship stronger).
Here's to a first week of cohabitation unlike any other! At least I'm not Ashton Kutcher, am I right?!
*I'm so Jewish! ^I saw "Book of Mormon" on Broadway two weeks ago and it's changed my life.
Oh good god--I've been away from the blogsphere for a little over a week and Google's found another way to change it up. I logged in and don't even recognize the dashboard or the "new post" page. If this ends up being entirely in Wingdings, my apologies.
Of course, if it's in Wingdings, you won't even know I apologized.
Guys, it has been a c-c-c-Cau-CRAZY week! On the 19th, Jewboo and I signed a lease on an apartment in Harlem, taking our realationship to the next level and gentrifying 7th avenue, which is one of the last holdouts of--I want to gag--the area the realtors have dubbed SoHa (South Harlem). Basically, we decided to challenge Bill Clinton. Bill, I see your office building and raise you an interracial, interfaith couple with a pet that is struggling to manage his obesity.
We are the new face on Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.
Speaking of being a new face (nailed it!): Last week I had two evening work events that really showed how far we haven't come. I went to both with my boss, who is even more cray when you have to deal with him one on one. Thursday night I was basically the Bagger Vance to his [Whatever Matt Damon's character's name was]--only without the moral lessons and new-found mutual respect. We were at an event where I was the only brown person not holding a tray and the average age of the attendees was 70. It was "old money" personified. There was one dude there who was 101 years old. Y'all, he was in a wheelchair being pushed by a slightly younger although equally geriatric woman (who was referred to as "the second wife that everyone calls a gold digger"), and I swear to you that at one point she wheeled him toward a wall and the panel opened and he was ushered inside.
Um, WTF?! Is he a hobbit?? Or perhaps a crypt keeper? Or was he part of a secret society of influential white males who have been granted eternal life???
Needless to say, I was out of my element.
After all my time inside Caucasia, though, I'm totally content to stand around and not talk to anyone while still looking approachable. However, I found it rather awkward when people I've met--and even written about--repeatedly didn't acknowledge my presence. I was getting Zen about it when two men approached my boss to chat. My boss introduced me to them and I jogged one of the guy's memory. The other didn't look at me. My boss then comments on the two men's colorful ties and makes a big production of saying that they're FIERCE! "We should just put you two at the door and you can blind everyone!" he said.
Then, the dude who doesn't acknowledge me points his thumb in my direction and goes, "With this one, we've got the whole rainbow!"My thoughts came in this order?
1. "This one"? Oh, so you can see me and have just chosen to say nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?
2. Wait, does he mean....?
3. No, that can't be--that's not even funny, even if he was trying to make a joke.
4. I'm wearing a cream-colored dress and a black sweater, so he can't have been referring to my clothing. He had to have been referring to the color of my skin and not the content of my character.
I bet he'd be terrified walking the streets of SoHa. God, I hate people.
I really would have had a better ending to this (complete with how the man "graciously" invited me to his Connecticut home as though I was a baby Zahara.) but I came back to this post about 8 hours after I started it and now I'm sucked into the maelstrom that is the Ikea website.
I heart you. Bear with me--we'll be out of this madness soon and I'll be bLack!
xoxo,
blacktress!
I arrived on the plantation today to find many emails in my inbox. Other than the usual Groupons and SPAM, there were emails from random "brokers" and "apartment owners" on craigslist asking for way too much information before setting up an appt to view an apartment. That's not the point of this post, though.
At the very top of my inbox was an email--nay, I'll call it an ALERT--from Scribe about the latest happenings inside Caucasia. It included a link to the following news item:
Look at all their smiles.....I feel like this is a nightmare from Kunta Kinte's Book of Dreams.*^
Her email was titled, "some cray from CauCRAYsia"--certainly an understatement. For the full story, click here.
Less than six months ago I came to you with news about Sweden's racism. It pains me to be repeating myself, but I can't hide this racist light under a bullshit bushel. Guys, this is the minister of culture shown here.
In an attempt to get more information, I've been reading comments about the article. No, not because commenters are geniuses--or even articulate--but because I want to get a sense of how this is being received in the country in which it took place. Here are some interesting nuggets:
Wanggren writes: Liljeroth is a member of MODERATERNA, the Swedish conservative party, not 'the left'. She's pretty much the opposite of 'the left' in all possible ways. It is currently the conservatives who are in majority in the Swedish government.
LiberalenDieter says: The true racists are those who care about the skincolor of the cake. If you aren't a racist and sexist, you just see human beeings and don't care about skin color or gender.
An American gal (and likely liberal-arts-college graduate) speaks truth to power:
The reason why this is something to complain about is because of how historically marginalized peoples have been negatively portrayed in the media as comical and savage subhumans. The minstrel figure has long been utilized to degrade certain groups of people. Also, as a woman, she should understand what a degrading, oppressive, and misogynistic practice genital mutilation is, and thus, she should be ashamed for making light of such an atrocity against women's rights.
To which a Scandinavian fella replied:
You are a brainwashed one, aren't you?
[Good lord. This one probably thinks that slavery and the Holocaust never really happened and is a huge Mel Gibson fan.]
Here's a particularly incendiary back-and-forth:
Another commenter writes: Sensationalist rubbish. Seriously... Its an art day. Grow up. Talk about twisting a story to sensationalize it.
Um, I'm not clear on how the fact that this is part of "World Art Day" makes it less offensive and inappropriate. I mean, guys--a bunch of white people smiling over an African cake as they devour it just takes the idea of "consumption of the other" to a while new level. Regardless of intent, implications can't be denied. These are supposed to be a group of educated--and decision-making/policy-creating people. I refuse to believe that nobody on staff said something. I imagine it would have gone something like this:
[Anyone With a Brain taps higher-up's shoulder, interrupting a conversation between him and another person.]
Anyone With a Brain: Lise. Jorgen. Um, the World Art Day cake arrived a few minutes ago. Lise: Great! Jorgen: Wheel it out! AWAB: I....don't think that's such a good idea.....I know this is meant to be a work of art, but I think that this is going to be bad publicity. Lise and Jorgen: Why? AWAB: It's a cake depicting an African woman--or some sort of traditional tribal statue.
Lise: Oh, that sounds so creative.
[A beat. AWAB wonders how to proceed.]
AWAB: The inside is red velvet. Jorgen: I love red velvet cake! AWAB: But don't you think it's a bit....gauche? Lise: Well, is it masterfully executed? AWAB: It is--which I think is part of what makes it so off-- Jorgen: Nonsense! I'm sure that, after submitting multiple budgets for this event, selecting an artist to create the cake and going over his plans before giving him the go-ahead to make it, the creation is completely in line with the event and the goals of our organization. In fact, I think it would be even more fitting if the minister of culture was the one to cut the first slice!
Lise: I love it! I'll make sure to get tons of media coverage.
[Anyone With a Brain slinks off, clearly uncomfortable.]
*now in paperback. Soon to be directed by Ed Burns.
That's what popped up on my phone when I tried to check my email during breakfast this morning. Usually it just says "connection lost" or something equally generic--it's like it knows I'm a hot mess.
I've been off the grid because Jewboo and I have begun apartment hunting. This has meant that every waking hour is spent on the internet looking for a place to call home and then running to potential spots at a moment's notice. I'm trolling on craigslist with the frequency of a convicted sex offender and getting as disappointed as a fella who requests an Asian prostitute and ends up with a 60-year-old German lady.
"UNEXPECTED FAILURE" is the best way to encapsulate my emotions over the last week and a half.
The whole process is soul-crushing. I just feel so inadequate and poor. Did you know that kitchens are a thing of the past? I mean, the appliances are still required, but one can longer expect to have any sort of surface for placing items, mincing meats, or juilenn-ing carrots. As I prepare to leave the finest accommodations I will ever know, I'm kinda depressed by the options available to me. I mean, why did I bother getting degrees expensive schools if I'd only be able to afford to live in a cardboard box?
Of course, there are options, but being in a realationship and all, we've got to do this thing called "compromise." As I understand it, it basically means we'll have to settle in favor of having each other and only hope that the resentment doesn't break us.
That's how love works, right?
I know I'm a brat, but because this blog is my safe space (where I am vulnerable to the comments and criticisms of others), I will tell my TRUTH: I have grown accustomed to a lifestyle in which I can do laundry at my leisure and only walk 2 minutes to the subway. And yes, my desire to live in Manhattan is a bit bourgie--but I swear, it's not my fault, it's genetic. I already told you guys how, when my mom was pregnant with me and living in Brooklyn she chose a doctor who worked in Harlem Hospital? Why did she do that? Because the hospital was top-notch. I was supposed to be born on December 24, but when my mom went in for a final check-up on December 7, she hopped off the examining table and her water broke--I was ready to break free.
Guys, even as a fetus I could sense that we were in Manhattan and I wanted to make it convenient for us. My connection with this convenient, narrow, subway-filled borough runs deep. (Plus, Lord knows it would have been a shit show trying to get a cab from BK to Harlem when your black and trying to do lamaze breathing!)
But I can't give up--if I let the negative thinking ruin me, I wouldn't have ever made it to freedom, you know?
As we struggle to find a place that works within our tiny budget, we also have to battle brokers, which are like evil gnomes who want nothing more than a pound of your flesh and 15% commission. I think our mutual hatred for them is what's keeping our love so strong as we attempt to traverse this heartless city. Honestly, the process is really bringing out the addict in me. Think about it:
Finding an apartment is basically a legal, drug-free way to get a high and then come crashing down with a hangover that can only come from absinthe and cocaine. Not that I've done that, mind you, but I've been around enough unsavory characters/rich private school kids to know how the process works. Basically, you spend all day trying to track down "the stuff" (going from listing to listing, making call after call). Most of the time, the weed you wanted turned out to be oregano and the cheap whiskey is watered down, so to speak. When you finally find "the goods," you've got the dealer breathing down your neck, repeatedly assuring you that "this is legit"--which you've learned means it's probably not (it's about attraction, not promotion in this drug game). You want to play it cool, but you've got a checkbook in your pocket and want to feel like you've accomplished something, so you get ready to hand over all your savings for a chance at a great high.
Just then, another dude comes up in need of a fix. Before you can even find your pen, he hands over all of his cash and the keys to his Bentley. You officially don't exist.
Cut to you squatting in a crack den, telling yourself this is just a one-time thing.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Am I really incapable of finding a clean, safe, centrally located place to live after nearly 30 years on earth and a full-time job at a place that's not McDonald's?
I mean, the answer is yes--at least on one of those counts. But to give up on dreams hurts, especially when I feel as though so many of my dreams are being deferred (the blackting, the voiceover, the day job).
I know this is a process and millions have gone through it and lived to tell the tale; I just didn't expect this kind of failure.
You have no idea how good it feels to be blogging again. I just got back from the D, which I haven't been to in over a year. As you know, when my mom and I go visit G-Unit, we must grapple with three generations of crazy, all with our own truths. This weekend was no exception and the only silver lining is that it was a mere 56 hours long. But it's amazing how, despite global warming, it's still so, so cold in the D. For those of you who still can't quite wrap your brain around what it is to be in the city that god forgot, let me share this internet vid. Not since T-Baby's magnum opus has the essence of the D been so eloquently captured.
I'm just glad that I don't have this guy's grandma!
The repeated requests for chili cheese, the support for Kwame Kilpatrick, the recollections of shooting various people--it's as spot-on as Stuff White Girls Say to Black Girls.
Some translations:
- "Run on Rose" means rose champagne--Moet. Apparently it's the balls. - "snatch some carties" = steal some Cartier sunglasses - Kwame Kilpatrick was the mayor of the D who was having an affair with his chief of staff--this was put out after he'd already been accused of corruption. That's why "he can't be textin bitches."
I've done four mics in the last three days, which might be laughable to Louis CK, but has me really proud of myself. Even though I love sleep like a fat kid loves not being made fun of, I know that I won't get off the plantation if I don't start squirreling away food and necessities to prepare for my escape--metaphorically speaking.
But man, open mics and networking sucks. At the end of a boring day writing about pictures of fruit in bowls, the last thing I want to do is to spend up to 2 hours in a lame bar surrounded by poorly dressed, mildly autistic, self-loathing men who are all friends with each other just so I can spend 5 minutes holding a microphone in front of the aforementioned boys club. They're not exactly my target audience.
Any comic who's made it--and developed a sustainable career--has put in the time and continues to do so. But I find it so hard to "replenish the creative well," so to speak, when I'm just running from one thing to the next, grocery bags under the eyes like I'm shoppin' at Whole Foods, and not really engaging in the world. I'm half tempted to start drinking and hooking up with randos just for the material!
I jest. I think.
Gladwell says it's all about clockin' the hours. But if I've gotta wait to hit 10,000 one set at a time, I may not be an outlier until I'm 84 years old. And by then, we'll all be hairless pod people providing the life force for Apple's cyborgs, so no one will really care. (Do you think they'll have comedy clubs in the dystopian future? I feel like they'd all be 20-person bringers with a 12-drink minimum.)
I'm finding myself most fueled by collaboration with strong black women of every color. I'm not above open mics and all, but nowadays I think of my best stuff when sitting and talking one-on-one with a quick-witted gal pal. Since that's the opposite of soul-crushing, I think I'll continue to go that route and not judge myself if I don't hit an open mic.
Why am I discussing this? Well, I just got a link to an article from--you guessed it!--a Caucasian strong black woman that really reinforced some of these thoughts. In it, the author cites Molly Lambert's article "Can't Be Tamed: A Manifesto," where she says:
“Befriend The Other Woman… She is not the enemy. She is never your enemy. The enemy is always any guys who are creating situations that limit the number of females allowed. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down.”
I did a show at 11pm last night because the woman hosting it had a last-minute cancellation and thought of me. She thought of me because, despite my insecurity, when she sent an email blast saying she was running this show, I told her to keep me in mind for future slots that might open up (it's booked really far in advance).
And she did. And so, even though I wanted to go home and write, I showed up because I don't believe in turning down a gig. And I know that none of this is owed to me. And this gal who I'm convinced thinks I'm pathetic will never get a chance to prove me wrong if I don't let it go. She is not my enemy. Most of the time, I'm my own damn enemy and I've decided I'm done hatin' on me!
Guys, it’s begun. Midnight last night, The Hunger Games premiered and my world was officially made whole. I am soooooo psyched, I don’t even know where to begin. I haven’t been this excited for a movie since Harry Potter IV! Jennifer Lawrence was the right choice for the lead. I mean, after Winter’s Bone— which was basically The Hunger Games set in meth country—we know that she can traverse a treacherous landscape for the good of her family.
And I only just found out that Stanley Tucci is in it!!!! Have I never mentioned my mild obsession with him? The man is perfect wherever he appears. I am so drawn to the Tucci, I want to touch his tushy! Yes, I'm so excited that all these puns are swirling in my head:
Katniss is my catnip!
Shot through the heart / And you're to blame / You messed with Katniss / during The Hunger Games!!!!
This might be Lenny Kravitz' best move since making daughter Zoe.
My only hope is that the movie is 10 hours long and re-creates every single page of the book.
So, I don’t know how many of you received my March newsletter (email madblacktress[at]gmail.com if you wanna opt in!), but I mentioned a gig that was unlike any I’ve ever had. Of course, being nervous and stressed about it, I was trying to block it out and not speak of it—you know, like how I handle sweating in public. Saturday, March 17, I was scheduled to perform at a Jewish Community Center in York, Pennsylvania, just an hour away from where Jewboo’s parents live!
One of these things is not like the other.....
Clearly, someone had dropped out at the last minute—but I’m not quite sure why I was the natural sub. Never one to turn down a gig, I said yes and figured I’d work it out later. It was kinda exciting—although I was getting paid to do “20 minutes, clean material, but can be edgy,” and my lover’s parents would be in attendance!!! As you can imagine, I was freaking out. I mean, what does ‘edgy’ even mean? Can I just get a list of forbidden words? You know, like:
YOU CANNOT SAY
F word
S word
C word
Vagina / Vajay-jay
P in V without a C
“I can’t passover those matzohballs.”
Niggerbollen
Honky Lumps
YOU CAN SAY
The other C word (cancer)
The other C word (Caucasia)
"Save the drama for Obama"
Bitch, when used as a pronoun
Wintercourse, when used as a biological term
I was equally stressed out being in a JCC. We all know that I’m down with the chosen but I’m learning that non-New York Jews are a different crowd. And, like the New Hampshire country club I attempted to entertain back in October, these folks were going to be out of my target demographic in terms of age and lifestyle choices. Would they know what Roots or a Tyler Perry production was? Would they be offended by the use of the term ‘Jewboo? I just wasn’t sure how I’d play it.
After consulting some of the top comedic Jewish minds I know, I reached the Zen place of not actually dealing with it. As Jewboo and I headed to PA, I started to get stressed. This was quickly eclipsed by a near-death experience.
So, turns out that I have allergy-induced asthma...which I discovered on Saturday, the morning before my JCC debut. #fml
Well, turns out it wasn't the lady meds--it's cat dander plus wall-to-wall carpeting.
After a night spent wheezing, we finally decided to suck it up and go to the urgent care center. Of course, being Pennsylvania and not NYC, I was in and out in just over an hour, complete with prescriptions to pick up! Of course, fear of death trumps fear of death by stage, but once I passed that hurdle, I was back to freaking out, and waiting around the venue for over 90 minutes didn't help--until I went to the bathroom, that is. After closing the stall door, my own face looked back at me!!!
Seeing one's own face in the most unexpected places (i.e. not a mirror) was mind-blowing!
I felt like Rihanna.
Clearly, they were ready for me, as they'd had to see my face numerous times over the last two weeks. I went up second, which gave me time to read the temperature of the room. They were quite fun, actually, and opener Gilad Foss killed them with his Israeli sense of Jewmor. I followed, and just sorta went in with my same old stuff. And turns out, they liked me--they really, really liked me!
After my set, everyone wanted to meet Jewboo (who had to repeatedly say his real name in an attempt to assert his identity), and the head of the JCC even cornered me in a wine-induced stupor and asked if I planned to convert to Judaism. "Um, let's go over to the cake," I replied. BYOB at a JCC = TMI!
The night was fun and it felt good to share that side of myself with the boo's parents. I was, however, wrecked from the previous night and ready to get to bed when we got home at 2am. (Keeping the parents out til all hours!) Unfortunately, steroids and the inhaler kept me hyped up like Jessie Spano before the big dance contest. I spent much of Sunday lying on the couch and returned to NYC with a mountain of laundry and much to do--you know, like prepare for an audition for 30 Rock on Monday.
Yep, that happened! I got an email Friday afternoon while en route to the PA JCC (perhaps I was already creating Chosen People karma before the gig began???). After the insanity of "Schmobbie Jones" (remember her?) I had to do a bunch of sleuthing to make sure I wasn't being lured into a dark alley. After all, how did they even know me? Where'd they get my contact info? How did they know I'd be right for the part?
Well, turns out those casting folks are good! Based on a set they saw me do at a club back in September, they called me in for a strong black woman whose one line is, "I handle conflict appropriately and I'm up-to-date on my mortgage payments!" YES!!! THAT IS SO ME!!!!
I was pretty psyched and was totally hepped up Sunday night--and still trying to get that whole "breathing" thing under control. A trip to the bathroom at 3:30am turned nearly deadly as I walked directly into the doorframe, clocking myself in the head. Any attempt at sleeping was abandoned, as I worked to ensure that I wouldn't end up with a giant lump on my head for 30 Rock.
I went into the audition in my Banana Republic dress and was about 10 years younger than the other women, which was a bit awk. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from Waiting to Exhale, especially because they all seemed to know each other. For reals, they were showing pictures of their babies, talking about their New Jersey homes that were minutes from one another, and generally being BFF. Clearly, there's an elite group of upwardly mobile blacktresses that function similarly to the Freemasons that I need to be a part of.
How are things going? I actually have energy today, which is surprising because I headlined a show at 11pm last night, got to work an hour late, and am about to get my period! TMI? Since when has that stopped me.
I headlined at Therapy, a gay bar that's served as a port in a storm for a blacktress for many months. I actually have fans who know when I'm gonna be there and show up to see me. And you have no idea how gratifying it is to be called "a funny bitch. I fuckin' love you." over and over. It never gets old.
Speaking of fuckin' loving people: Yesterday marked two years since Jewboo and I first made out and a love was born. Can you believe it, guys?
You've been there from the beginning, readers, and I had to mark this milestone with you. Honestly, you know more than my mother. It was to you that I first broke the news of my love affair 3 weeks in, coining the term 'Jewboo' in an attempt to protect his anonymity. It was you who found out about the first cry, 6 weeks into the relationship, and shared my elation when love was declared. And here we are, preparing to move in together, just two interracial lovers and two mildly obese cats. Who woulda thunk?
I'm going to keep this post brief, since I'm also trying this new thing where I actually focus on work between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Wish me luck!
Guys, I just got the following casting notice and I have to share:
OPEN CALL
For the Tupac Shakur musical:
HOLLER IF YA HEAR ME
An American Musical Inspired by and featuring the music of Tupac Amaru Shakur
*Actors must be available for workshop dates: 4/23 - 5/11
SEEKING: African American Male and Female rappers ages 18 – 35. Additionally seeking one Caucasian actor ages 20 – 25 with a strong facility for rap and terrific guitar skills. Strong legit singing voices a plus for all, but not required.
WHAT TO PREPARE: A rap of choice under 2 minutes. We will supply a boom box if needed. Singers should prepare 16 - 32 bars of an uptempo song to sing accapella. You may bring your own accompaniment if you want.
My dear readers, please feel free to forward to all of your actor-friends who have a dream of being AMAZING.
If there's one way for a thug to be immortal, it's to be the basis of a musical.
Someone on the Disney product-design team is a real dummy, if not a racist mastermind. Check out this new candy:
These new "Dig N Dips" are both portable and hateful! With the black princess endorsing the watermelon flavor and the white princess endorsing vanilla, your tiny tot can rot their teeth and their brain at the same time! You know, cause white people are vanilla colored and one of the oldest racial stereotypes in history states that black people love watermelon.
You already know I take issue with Disney's first black princess being turned into a frog about 5 minutes into her movie. The fact that they would do Tiana dirty like this is just beyond me. I have no idea how this kind of ridiculousness still happens. Do you know how many people have to sign off on a product and its packaging before it actually gets made? Seeing as I need to go through 4 people just to get a cover line on one of my magazines, I would imagine Disney is even more strict. So, let's just say that at least 4 people had to have looked at this package mock-up and said, "Yup, that's good! Aurora, Vanilla; Tiana, Watermelon. Put it in major grocery and candy stores across the country. [release to Manila and Taiwan in 6 months.]"
Guys, I've never been so excited for March in my life. This BHM was a real rollercoaster: We lost Don Cornelius and Whitney Houston; Viola lost, Octavia won; birth-control pills were recalled; and I'm finally getting the hang of Twitter.
To top it off, it seems that everyone's favorite Hot Mess Oompa Loompa, Snooki, is pregnant.
WHAT. THE. HELL IS HAPPENING TO THE WORLD?????
Shouldn't her ovaries be withered and her eggs pickled? Shouldn't her boyfriend's semen be 80 proof and unable to survive outside of his body? At the very least, shouldn't someone with her drinking history at the very least be getting Depo shots so as not to tax her memory? Of course, as I say this, I hear Jeff Goldblum's voice in my head, saying "Life finds a way."
Let's just hope that baby doesn't have fins. Or, better yet, that it doesn't get its own tv show--although it would probably make for a great season of Toddler & Tiaras.
This is one of those times I kinda wish The Hunger Games was real. If we had televised fights to the death, we'd be able to really separate the wheat from the discredits to the species, am I right guys????
Speaking of separating the wheat from the discredits, I must share this INSANE--albeit 5 years old and NSFWUYHH (Unless You Have Headphones)--youtube clip of local Atlanta public-access figure Alexyss K. Tylor--I kid you not, that is how her name is spelled.
Man, living with this German is a real test of endurance. Note to self: never rent out a room to a foreign PhD student--they're always in the house because they're too busy and too broke to do things.
I've been late to work every day this week because this gal's bogarting the bathroom like she has somewhere to be (which she doesn't, cause she just works in the house all day). The week before, I couldn't eat my breakfast in peace because she decided to make the kitchen her new workspace.
Look, y'all, I'm not a total curmudgeon (all the time), but first thing in the morning, I need my oats, my orange juice, and 30 minutes to steel myself for the day ahead. Before I head out to spend 8 hours doing something I don't enjoy, surrounded by people from the moment I step on the train until I get to sleep, I want half a damn hour sitting upright, catching local news, and not make upbeat small talk with someone I'm not close to. After all, I gotta save that for my coworkers.
I feel like Anne Frank in my own damn house! Every time I thought I heard the bathroom door open, I'd get up to head to the shower, only to find that she was inside the bathroom. Yesterday I had to straight-up knock--and passive-aggressively say, "I have to get ready for work" instead of, you know, "I have to take a shower"--because I couldn't wait any longer. Before knocking, I heard what sounded like some very heavy-duty exfoliating and labored breathing. I hated to interrupt, but if you're doing some sort of Ethan-Hawke-in-Gattaca* type of thing, I'm gonna need you to put the kibosh on that until after I leave the house.
In summation, I don't like living with her, I got to work 2 hours late, and I really like the movie Gattaca.
As you may have noticed, my posting is getting few and far between. It's not that I don't appreciate our relationship or love internet attention, but I'm working on writing a show and I find that I must redirect my humor-writing focus in order to make sure I actually generate material. Trying to create interesting and, hopefully, funny content for the diary, stand-up audiences, and a stage production is a lot to do at once, and I've figured out that the stage-show dreams always fall by the wayside because it's easier to write--and get instant gratification from--stuff for the blog and live audiences. So, in an attempt to get something more substantial going, you may see less of me--you know, like when a friend gets in a new relationship. (It's me and The Artist's Way, and we're head over heels for each other.) But I'll still be telling my truths, so don't give up! As I like to say, I'm goin' on hiatus but don't hate us!
*For those of you unfamiliar with the film with which I was obsessed for much of 1998, here's the clip I'm referring to (I even edited it myself!):
My apologies for the radio silence (or computer silence, or whatever—you know what I mean). Of course, I’m probably the first website you checked upon hearing the news of Whitney’s death. I’m sorry I failed you. I found out just minutes before going on stage and had to struggle to bring my A game. I actually have a visceral reaction to her death and am trying not to think about it. Whitney Houston was a crucial part of my upbringing and my desire to be a blacktress. I honed my singing chops by singing along to every one of her tapes—yes, I said tapes—from the age of 9 on. I think The Bodyguard was my first exposure to interracial love.
I'm also learning to Distract, Relax, and Cope, as my therapist recommends, with the help of Toddlers & Tiaras--or, as I like to call it, 16 & Pregnant: The Later Years. Look at this photo of coked-out Honey Boo Boo Chile Alana and her mom on Anderson Cooper.
THEY ARE BOTH TERRIFYING!!!!
ALANA LOOKS LIKE A CHUCKY DOLL. For those of you who can't see the full effect, I am offering a close-up.
There but for the grace of god go I.
In other news: It's funny how you can not sleep at all, finally get out of bed at 7:23am, and still get to work an hour late. It just keeps happening! I probably couldn't sleep because I was anxious for a set I'm doing at THE UNITED NATIONS tonight.
Yes, the real United Nations.
I’m doing a set at a charity gala organized by the UN and GLAAD to support the human rights of the global LGBTQ community!
I’m so nervous. I’ve been told that I have to do a 10-minute set and to “Please keep it clean and just letting you know that the crowd is very politically correct and very international. So please try not to have any offensive material.”
Of course, I needed clarification. I mean, there are going to be people from all over the world and all across the gender spectrum—there’s no way I’m going to talk for 10 minutes without making someone want to throw their crudite. The PR woman explained:
I would just ask that you don't use the word bitch because people in my office are very sensitive to that word. Also, if you could limit the cursing, and don't use material that is overly sexual or racial (For example: No wintercourse bit)
Overly sexual and overly racial is my middle name!
Well, we'll see. Maybe I can do a tight-10 on The Channel Islands or Burma or something.
I'm composing another post right now! #whenitrainsitpours
Ugh, I have no idea what to blog about. But I've started reading The Artist's Way which suggests writing "morning pages" every day. These are three handwritten pages of whatever comes to your mind right after waking up. The goal is to just write, with no judgments or agenda, and just clear out all the crap. So, with that in mind, I'm going to just write about where I'm at, and just see what happens. (without being overly self-indulgent, I swear!)
Not that my life's totally boring (just mildly), but I don't know how to be succinct and witty anymore. Between writing about paintings non-stop and the calls from [insert network here]'s Legal Department, the will to go on has been sucked out of me.
Yes, calls from the legal team. Remember my cuckoo bananas run-in with a mentally ill woman who offered to make me a star? Well, since then I've gotten several more emails, and at 12:06am last night I received a THREE-MINUTE VOICEMAIL MESSAGE from the woman, talking about how NBC writers are just mad at her because "my sketches are perfectly written and LOL." Yes, she said LOL.
Of course, this is all fodder for something, but I've been suffering from creative blocks and I feel like I just need an emotional laxative. (A relaxative? A frien-ema? I feel like there's a good portmanteau out there just waiting to be found!) In summation, here's where I'm at right now:
Sojourner's Current Truths
I cringe every time my coworker opens the blinds to the window that stretches across both of our cubicles. I realize it's because the feeling of the sunlight on my skin reminds me that this is reality. (Sometimes when I'm in the office alone, I don't open any blinds at all.)
Is it wrong for me to ask the German roommate not to use the kitchen as a study space so that I can get up and have my morning oatmeal (and general pre-day prep) in peace and quiet?
What about if I ask her to stop making her gross-smelling coffee that makes the house smell like wet garbage?
Whenever I'm crossing the street, I'm afraid that turning cars are going to hit me. A couple weeks ago, a guy stopped his car after I ran across (I had the light), he opened his door, and yelled after me, "WHY YOU RUNNING??? WHY YOU RUNNING? YOU FUCKING IDIOT." It was awkward.
Jewboo and I are starting to look for an apartment and the place we were interested in just fell through. We had a sure-fire in, there was a washer/dryer IN THE BUILDING, and the apt has a special spot in my heart because it's where I saw my very first episode of 16 & Pregnant. Then the landlords decided we had to go through a broker (after speaking with us directly and giving us apps to fill out), who would charges a $1700 fee! Um, no thanks.
Ugh, I just got another email from the crazy lady, telling me to "be nicer to the writer, N" after I wrote her an email asking her to cease communication.
Is that a threat? Y'all, she's going to skin me and wear me as a pelt!
Jewboo alerted me to this news item with just the words "Jesus Christ" before the link. Unfortunately, I wasn't all that surprised--not even after reading about Detroit resident Julia Brown.
The last time Brown, 73, called the Detroit police, they didn’t show up until the next day. So she applied for a permit to carry a handgun and says she’s prepared to use it against the young thugs who have taken over her neighborhood, burglarizing entire blocks, opening fire at will and terrorizing the elderly with impunity.
“I don’t intend to be one of their victims,” said Brown, who has lived in Detroit since the late 1950s. “I’m planning on taking one out.”
Although Julia "Throw Down" Brown is obviously related to T-Baby in some way, she is no match for my G-Unit. At 95 years old, G-Unit has been keeping a gun in her house since the Regan administration (hence her lovable nickname). When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she always warned us to "go anywhere but in the front room. That's where I keep my gun."
Having seen Boyz N the Hood and knowing we were already living on borrowed time as black youth in Detroit, none of us were stupid enough to actually look for the firearm, but we were obsessed with the idea of my grandmother having it.
"What are you gonna do with a gun, grandma?" My cousin asked.
"I'll shoot an intruder," she said, with her voice starting to rise. "Some fool tryna come up in here and rob me. I may be old, but I ain't no weak person! I made it this far and I ain't letting some dumb son of a bitch take me."
Ever the logical one, I had only one follow-up "If you shot him, what would you do with the body?"
What my grandmother said next is still emblazoned on my brain 20 years later. So matter-of-fact that she was almost dismissive, she replied, "I'd let the dog eat it."
Y'all! Ethel will leave your body as puppy chow if you try to start some ish! She's gonna make sure black folks can have nice things!
(I think this level of hardness is what makes me such a difficult woman to love. I come from take-no-prisoners Southern sharecropping stock.)
At the time, I imagined a body on the hallway floor with Toby (her dog) biting off bits of it. Even at 7 years old, I assumed there'd be a stench and wondered how Grandma would get pass the corpse to get to the bathroom every two hours, as she was wont to do. I was able to have such a detailed vision because I had no doubt in my mind that G-Unit would do it!
I blame Clint Eastwood. Gran Torino was practically a documentary and then there was that Super Bowl commercial (see below). I guess this is what he meant by "Motor City fighting again."
By "the roar of our engines," did you mean the sounds of caps busting in asses?
Just wanted to share a great clip from one of my favorite comics, Hari Kondabolu. No better way to celebrate BHM with a man who always speaks truth to power.
I have been on the plantation less than hour and have already received two pieces of news that have shaken my young, gifted, and BLACK world. I can't be alone in this.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! Don, you created the longest-running show in the history of television! You showed white people how to dance! You provided the basis for countless episodes of sitcoms!
He is, in short, an AfAm Icon. Today of all days, this hurts. And what hurts even more is that it's been buried at the bottom of news and pop-culture websites.
Y'ALL! THIS IS NOT OKAY. I can't be ringing in BHM Juno style!
Can you imagine a bunch of mini blacktresses and Jewboos running around?! They'd be all kinds of neurotic (cause they're the Jewish spawn of two aspiring comics) and neglected (cause they were accidents). I don't have enough money for dreams, let alone prenatal vitamins! Not to mention the fact that I get weary just watching a Law & Order marathon, so you know late-night feedings would be out. AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I have no one to share this with, as my coworkers find it a bit "inappropriate" that I told them I used one of the brands that have been recalled. Of course, I turn to you, gentle readers. We need each other now more than ever.
In hopes of turning this day--nay, this month--around, I'm going to share what I planned to write about this morning, before all of this earth-shattering news hit my brainhole.
Thank god for JJSiii. Whenever a blacktress is down, he knows exactly what to send from the interwebs to remind me that life's worth living. On Monday, it was an invitation to join his RuPaul Fantasy Drag Race team.
Today, he sent along a music video so amazing, I don't even think I have the words for it. I will let it speak for itself. Please, enjoy. You're welcome.
After writing what I thought were the lyrics, I ran them against JJSiii and found we were on the same page. Clearly, English isn't Andrew Doriane's first language, but bless him for putting his feelings out there. For those who may be having trouble deciphering, here's the breakdown:
“Breath of the ocean / Tranquil emotions / I’m feeling so safe in her arms / One thing is clear / Heaven is here / With her, I can reach for the stars / Looking at us...
CHORUS: Somehow she’s like gay / I’ve always had this feeling / even deep inside / She has been playing gay so real that I believe it / Am I losing my mind?
“No one except her / Keeps me protected / From different storms on my way / Her guessing my wishes / Makes me suspicious / She knows me for (??) what I think / God, she’s like gay
(repeat chorus)
Somehow she’s like gay, because she seems to know men as well as gays do / She must be playing gay with me so I can only be like lesbian too
Happy Monday, gang—Sojourner here, writing to you live from my veal pen. I apologize for the delayed post. There was much going on but I wasn’t sure if it was share-worthy until now. I’ll start with the most CRAY:
Last Sunday (1/22) I did a set at a gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen that I thought changed my life. I mean, I wasn’t so amazing, but I did well and discovered I have a growing fan base among the 20-something unemployed-gay-male set. After the show, a woman approached me, congratulating me on my set and asking if I “had done any television.” She was very small and dressed like a tourist, with an oversized hunter-green fleece and a fanny pack. {RF} She asked for my card and introduced herself as a writer for SNL and script supervisor on 30 Rock. "I work closely with Marci Klein and have script supervised for Tina Fey," she said. "And I always like to keep an eye out for new faces for casting. Can I have your card?"
OH EM GEE!!! Dreams DO come true! Perhaps I can still be noticed doing my stand-up thang even though I’m not in the cult of UCB. Perhaps I am above average. Perhaps—
Now, y’all know mama didn’t raise no fool. Before the show ended I approached the host and asked if this woman was legit. “No, she is,” he assured me. “She’ll email you tomorrow, pass your info on, it’s all good.” Because I want this man to be my best friend, and because he's a working actor and comic who's been in the business many years, I trust his judgment.
That night, giddy with excitement but not one to count my chickens, I search for the woman online. After all, a writer for two of the most famous and popular shows on television must have an IMDB or a Wiki, right?
Well, not a damn thing came up. {RF} Um, this is 2012--if you are not on the internet, you do not exist. Even as a freelancer--especially as a freelancer--one should have a website so that people can know you're legit.
The next day, she did email, asking for a high-res picture she could send to NBC casting--perhaps I was just being negative. As I scrambled to find a good shot on my work comp, I noticed that the email came from a--let’s say schmachel.schmuben@aol.com. {RF} The woman I met introduced herself as let’s say Schmobbie Jones. Ok, maybe it’s an assistant, I thought to myself. So I decided to google the name in the email address, adding “NBC” “SNL,” “writer staff”—no dice. {RF}
As I'm pretending to be Garcia from "Criminal Minds," Schmobbie was sending emails like this: Subject: 3 scripts printed I can mail or do you want to meet briefly - it's rainy & i am writing /sent pitch to NBC west they like your casting & brad gave you a rave as actress/ comedian - I am into the series it's really got a got shot it's in the semi finals on west coast development/ anyway totally! [insert rando alias] nbc 30 r
{RF} WHAT THE FUCK? The "semi finals"? Of what--America's Next Top CauCRAYsian?
At this point, I was glad I hadn't told anyone besides Jewboo and my mom.
I like to think of myself as NancyDrew Must Not Know Bout Me, which means I'm never done sleuthing (imagine if this was an internet date!). I decided to contact a friend—ok, let’s be real, a Facebook friend—who writes for SNL and tell her about this person. She’s never heard of the woman! I email the comedian through whom I met this woman to let him know the status:
Hey B - Have you actually been called in for anything through [insert rando alias]? I can't find hide nor hair of her on the interwebs, and she said she wrote at SNL and my friend who's a writer there has never heard of her. Also got an email from her under the address [another random alias]@yahoo.com (sent to my youtube account) and schmachel.schmuben@aol.....Is she going to have us all gathered together for a sex party? -N
He replies with: Lol. No, she's legit. She writes freelance for snl.. So not a staff writer. And is one of the script supervisor's for 30Rock. She ain't Tina Fey or Lorne Michaels... But she's also not Kathy Bates in Misery...
Mmmmkay…..But I can't ignore the feeling in my gut. Much like young Christina Aguilera when she was a genie in a bottle, my body was sayin' let’s go (ahead and think you may be getting a great opportunity) but my heart was saying NO (this bitch is cray)!
The emails keep coming all week, with requests to meet for a read-through, phone calls telling me where the scripts have been dropped off for me to pick up, and emails cc’d to me and NBC exec producer Marci Klein, Bob Greenwalt, and others. If she was a fraud, wouldn't any of the NBC people on the emails--or one of their assistants or an intern--send a standard reply to those included on the chain so that they can head this off at the pass? And this "Schmobbie" woman hasn’t tried to extort money from me or put me in an ice bath so she can jack a kidney, so what exactly is her end-game?
Last night—exactly seven days after our initial meeting—my theories were confirmed. I went to the same bar from last week to pick up the scripts that this woman left for me, and the comic pulls me into the coat-check room as soon as he sees me. He's sighing and clutching his temples, and won't say anything until he's closed the barricade and tightly sequestered us in the corner of the dimly lit coatroom. (love my dramatic gays) “Did you get my email?” he asks tensely. Alas, no. I was out all day, and had just come from doing a shitty set at a comedy show in Harlem. He fills me in on his email, which was:
[One of the other comics embroiled in this mess] just texted me to say she was contacted by NBC legal regarding [this sketchy woman] and supposedly she is NOT affiliated with NBC and they're basically reaching out to people to make sure we steer clear of her. I'm waiting for [comic] to call me and give me more details and I'll let you know all I know... So stay tuned Ps. I hate this business...
Y’all, I just don’t know what to say. I’m annoyed, depressed, and frustrated. People always tell me I’m being pessimistic, but then shit like this goes down, and I’m like, “I TOLD YOU IT WASN’T HAPPENIN’ FOR ME!” These out-of-control incidences are the kinds of unforgettable things that influence your outlook! Although I saw it comin’ a mile away, and I know the woman is sick and suffering, I can’t help but feel the following:
If NBC knows about this woman, why couldn’t I have gotten a form-email saying that she wasn’t who she claimed to be? (she’d cc’d real NBC executives on our emails) I'm not saying I Marci Klein should have scooped me up in her arms, rocked me gently, and told me I was talented, but I mean, it's fuckin' NBC—I know they got auto-reply and an IT staff that’s probably got 19 PhDs among them. This lady wears a laminated NBC badge—really, they aren’t gonna take any recourse or help others avoid falling prey to her fuckery?
How can this delusional woman involve so many young, hopeful actors into her elaborate lies?? She’s heartbreakin’ and impersonatin’!
I’m trying to “suit up and show up,” as they say—do what I can, be open and honest, and try not to let the successes of people 10 years young and 20 pounds thinner make me feel bad. And yet, when I put myself out there in spite of my negativity, I’m met with mentally unstable hobbit-like creatures who are still emailing me about a green-lit pilot in which I'd play a 40-something-year-old former model. Yes, y’all—allegedly, there’s a read-through tonight at 10pm.
#DreamsDeferred
On an Up-Note:
It seems that Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock might go on tour together. Reason to live? – Present! Of course, Dave’s the wild card in this scenario, but if anyone could persuade him, it’s Chris “Solid As A” Rock. Fingers crossed! I'd love to be their roadie.
God, I can't believe it's been 12 days since my last post. Apologies, friends!
I meant to put this post up yesterday and got all kinds of sidetracked. Apparently, when you purchase a “Mattress in a Box” from Overstock.com, the condition of the box cannot be trusted. It’s tough to roll something when the wheels are broken off. It's even tougher to carry it when it's nearly 80 pounds. Luckily, there were a few good men willing to play their gender and my back is already out, so it didn't hurt much. I digress...
Guys, I’m really excited about Melissa McCarthy being nominated for an Oscar. I didn’t think Bridesmaids was as great as everyone said, but she was certainly the best part of that film. Every word out of her mouth was gold and she embodied the values of a SBW (Strong Black Woman). She reminds me why doing comedy is important--and shows that true talent can't be denied. Comedies are rarely acknowledged by the Academy, let alone comedic actresses. This is fucking HUGE!
Plus, she’s bff with Octavia Spencer, which makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
And also makes me want to become Octavia Spencer...
Of course, you probably want me to say a little something about Viola, Octavia, and The Help buzz. To those inquiring minds, all I have is this: I have no love for a film that centers on a kindly Caucasian recognizing racism and inequality. Emma Stone, I don’t need your Help!
Viola Davis is the new Angela Bassett of my heart, only even more versatile.* I want to be her when I grow up. I love what she has to say in interviews and she’s definitely a blacktress paving the way. But Viola should have won the Oscar for Doubt and that’s all I have to say.
So anyway, back to MMc--Which one of Megan’s hilarious moments do you think AMPAS will use for the nominee clip? I hope it’s the airplane scene with the air marshal.
*I’ll forgive her one Tyler Perry Production indiscretion, as I assume it involved some bad management and/or outstanding grad-school debt.
The video really started to resonate with me when she started smushing her belly. I enjoy doing that, especially when I'm trying to prove why I'll never be a star of stage or screen.
I mean, if I had a nickel for every time I called someone "honey boo-boo child," I'd be a trillionaire. Nay--a chamillionaire!
Sidebar: I know kids are energetic, but does it kinda seem like Alana might be on meth or some other sort of stimulant?
*[Balls--I wrote this yesterday (Thurs) and thought I'd hit send.]
I did a set at a cabaret-type club as part of an inaugural “musical comedy variety show.”
Friends, let me let you in on a little “industry secret”: Comedy and music don’t mix very well, and stand-ups hate doing ‘variety’ shows. No one who is interested in either—or both—wants to view them at the same time. They require two different modes of engaging, one of which is passive and the other is much more of a dialogue. Basically, my point is, I was ready for it to be very awkward and uncomfortable. Add to that my lack of sleep and the small crowd, and it was really anybody’s game.
[Sidebar: Ugh, my coworker is trying to get us to pitch in to buy wedding gifts for two of our coworkers who are getting married (not to each other). I’m still pissed off about the waste of money that was The Yankee Swap. These people don’t pay me enough to waste my money. Besides, you’re about to marry the person you love more than anything and take three weeks off of work—as far as I’m concerned, you need to be getting me a consolation prize!]
Anyway, back to the show: The order was: music – stand-up (a young Caucasian) – music – special musical guest – music – Sojourner – music.
The music was amazing. Although the mastermind behind it all was a delicate Canadian, white as the freshly driven show, she had some serious soul. It was like she got a shaman to steal the voices of Sarah Vaughn and Etta James. I went up to her and her bass player afterward and asked them what was in the water in British Columbia that made the youth so soulful. (Bass player posited it was animal urine. Oh, Canucks!)
It was a great show, but by the time I got on stage—following a jazz rendition of The Cardigans hit “Lovefool” (which was AMAZING)—I was damn-near asleep and thought I’d be a hot mess. The band was onstage during the set, so I had to make inappropriate comments to them, of course. I also dropped a lot of TRUTH BOMBS that they’re weren’t ready for, like the popularity of the Swedish dessert niggerbollen. After about three minutes, I just looked at the audience and said, “THIS IS HOW I DO, Y’ALL. GET IN IT TO WIN IT OR CHOOSE TO LOSE.”
It actually wasn’t that bad of a set, considering the small, jazz-loving crowd. I was accosted by two audience members post-show, which is always a sign of success. One of them was a cute fashionista (seriously; she worked in fashion) and the other was an honest-to-goodness CauCRAYsian.
Guys, I don’t know how to describe him. He just sort of happened to me. He came to the show late—about a minute into my set—and even if it had been crowded, he would have been impossible to miss. With long, thin brown hair (parted down the middle), large Hollywood-royalty sunglasses (yes, he wore them indoors), a floor-length Neo-like coat, and an ascot, he was like Ozzie Osbourne’s whimsical younger brother. He cracked up during my set, and as I was making my way to the door, he stopped me in my tracks.
“YOU!” he said, grabbing my face. “Darling, Darling, Darling!!!” He really enjoying rolling his r’s. I laughed, but before I could say anything, he leans in with his pillowy lips to kiss me on the mouth. WHAT. THE. FUCK?!
I manage to turn my head (his grip was strong), saying, “Didn’t you pay attention to the words that were coming out of my mouth?! I have a Jewboo now and I’m a classy lady!” He then plays it off in top form, saying, “Oh, yes, that is good. That was a test and you passed. We can now be friends.” He then tells me that he loved “Caucasia” because he is Georgian—as in, from Georgia, aka the Caucasus region of Europe/Asia. Guys, he is FROM THE CAUCUS MOUNTAINS. HE IS AN ORIGINAL CAUCASIAN!
He then goes on to tell me that, if you were to talk to a Russian, they’d refer to him as “the name of those Swedish balls.” Apparently, the Georgians are looked down upon. Between his minority status and Caucasian roots, he decided we were best friends. He refused to let go of me and demanded I accompany him to Marie’s Crisis, a basement piano bar where everyone’s a diva. I explained that I had to go. of course, there was a time not so long ago, when I would have hung out with this random pillowy-lipped, likely herpetic Georgia until 4am, just for the 10 minutes of material later on.
But I’m a new woman, with chronic fatigue, a tender lover, and a penchant for baked goods. Oh, and I’m now a blogger for a movie website! Check it out.
