Can She Make it Anymore Obvious?

So, I kind of detest Avril Lavigne.

I just wish she didn't think she was so clever and interesting. She's just not. I am. She's not. I've decided these are facts. Example? Lyrics from the hit song "SK8er Boi":

She was a girl/ He was a boy/ Can I make it anymore obvious?/ He was a punk/ She did ballet?/ What more can I say?

Um.... what?
There's so much more she could say. The question is, can she make it any more heteronormative?

Yet for some reason, she is famous and I am forced to hear her off-pitch voice screeching in my ears.

The latest assault: "When You're Gone." I saw the video for the first time this morning. As the title indicates, it's about missing someone you love and wanting them back. My first problem came when I saw the three relationships that are meant to epitomize feelings of longing:
1. an elderly man whose wife has just died.
2. a preppy girl torn from the arms of her punk-ish boyfriend by her harsh mother. (um, SK8er Boi part 2, anyone?)
3. a pregnant woman whose husband is overseas in Iraq.

How Avril can even think missing some dude is the same as an old man losing his only love and preparing to go to her funeral is beyond me. Is this some attempt to appeal to the AARP crowd? I don't think it's gonna happen, April-- yeah, I'm calling her April. F this quirky S.

I am also sick and tired of seeing Iraq on commercial television. For some reason, I find it so offensive-- kinda like the movies Amistad and the television miniseries Roots. There are certain atrocities that cannot be rendered on film in an attempt to "give us access." Nothing you can create that requires a commercial break can accurately portray the suffering-- or reality-- of historical OR CURRENT events. It's just so rude.

I digress.

At the end of the video, the old man goes to his wife's funeral, the preppy girl survives, and the pregnant wife, worried sick over her husband, finds out she's all right. YAY!

My problem with this is:

The pregnant woman finds out her husband is all right VIA TEXT MESSAGE! It reads:
I'm okay. I miss u.

Um... can we get text messages from Iraq?
If so, then we should be getting a whole lot more information.
Do the soldiers have unlimited nights and weekends, too?
Why are we having children send poorly written, inspirational construction paper creations via snail mail if they've got the T-Mobile text plan?

If they can text and keep in touch, is Avril implying that the war isn't so bad after all?

Is Avril Lavigne a Canadian supporter of George Bush?
See for yourself. And think about it.

I Wish I Was Still Writing Film Papers

Have you seen that movie "Village of the Damned"? It is a remake of a 1960s film made in 1995, and stars Kirstie Alley and Christopher Reeve. It's about this small town that suffers from a blackout, after which all the women in the town simultaneously become pregnant with alien spawn.

Yeah, I know, it's pretty great.

Clearly, people know something's awry when everyone gets pregnant on the same day. And, as one woman eerily notes, "The Roberts' girl was a virgin."

Dun-dun-dun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (is that how you write scary music?)

In the town meeting-- yes, in 1995 there were still towns small enough to hold meetings-- Kirstie (who plays a doctor-- hahah, I thought she owned a bar!) says that the government wants to study them and is offering to give each woman $3,000 a month if she carries her child to term.

I find this film to be a period piece, with it's quaint, small-town setting, and Kirstie's shoulder pads. See below:

Anyway, I think what I love about this movie is that the alien babies are all Aryan visions of wonder, almost to the point of being Albino terrors. Even the Asian woman's baby comes out looking like Hitler's wet dream. Clearly, this should have been the first sign that these children were up to no good.

But, as you know, if it's white, it's right, so it took a lot of violent acts for the parents to realize that the kids were evil monsters sent from a far off planet to take over earth. It wasn't until they did this:

that it was too late for the townspeople of Midwich.

These kids used to appear to me in my nightmares.

What I noticed this time around is that the first two people to be killed in this film were Asian women. I wonder what John Carpenter is trying to say here. Does he hate Asians?!

I think so.

Sojo's Sadness.... Turns to Anger!

THIS POST HAS BEEN TAKEN DOWN DUE TO INTERNATIONAL DRAMA.

Friday Night (Amstel) Lights

So I woke up at 10 am Saturday morning.

In a bed that wasn't mine own.

And I wasn't wearing any pants.

I jumped up and turned over to find Litsa, my ultimate savior and soul sister, asleep next to me. Of all the beds to wake up in, I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn't next to some strange clergyman feeling oddly violated.

The last thing I remember is using the restroom with Colin's boyfriend, Jon, around 1 am. Prior to that, a bald man in a suit bought me a drank, much in the style of T-Pain.

Wait, does this sound like a bad Lifetime movie? No, I don't think it was. Though blacking out-- wait, no WHITING OUT*-- was uncharacteristic, I don't think he raised the roofie. Recounting my evening, I had about 9 dranks. 9! And I don't play football and I'm a dainty lady.

So, I woke up to find that my pants were in a pile on the floor and they were soaking wet. Why? Litsa and I don't know. What she was able to tell me was this:

1. We left the bar around 1:30, where the bald man told her not to let me leave, as I was the prettiest girl there. She then asked him if we were related-- which wouldn't be surprising given my week.

2. Apparently, instead of being put in a cab home (as we should have been), a friend took us to another bar, where he bought us two Amstel lights and sat us down while he hung out with a group of his friends. Yep-- we were "those girls." Now, when I discovered this, I knew I must have been out of my mind-- an Amstel... light?! Not only do I not drink beer, I do not believe in light beer as a concept. I asked Litsa if I actually consumed said "beverage," and she said yes. This is when I should have been given smelling salts.

3. There was a box of instant macaroni and cheese on her dresser. We had purchased this around 3 am at a bodega. Why, I do not know. We can only be thankful we did not attempt to cook this macaroni and cheese.

4. As I walk around her apt, searching in vain for my wallet, I notice my right calf and left hip are swollen and sore. Apparently, I fell.... several times.

5. Luckily, I have my house keys and cell phone. I look in my phone and see several text messages from a tall man I'd met earlier, asking me where I was. Apparently, I had texted him and we were scheduled to meet up.
Who am I?

Litsa then tells me I called him in the cab on the way to her house-- what did I say? Mystery number 37 of the night.

I offer to buy Litsa brunch, and discover that my entire wallet is missing. Debit card, metrocard, license. Shoot me now.

I finally make it home, after dealing with Bank of America (well, when you're on 125th street, it's Bank of African America) about a new card, and see the following text message from Litsa: "Mystery #50 of the night.... blood on my tv."

Did we kill a man just to watch him die?

I have no idea what the hell went on.

I then get a call on Saturday evening from a Turkish man named Onur who doesn't speak much English. He wants to hang out with me.

Um..... help?

I also get a text message from a unidentified number:
"Sorry about last night and for calling so late."
I write back: "It's okay, who is this?"
The sender replies: "Dan."

Dan is someone I kissed about 2.5 weeks ago at a club on the Lower East Side. What he said to me at 1:45 am Friday night is, of course, another unknown.

In an attempt to take Saturday night slowly and soberly, I prepare to head home early from a club. Who do I pass on my way out but my EX BOYFRIEND, who I haven't seen in 7 months. He is an Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college.

Needless to say, I'm a hot mess. It's 9:30 am and I'm blogging because I am unable to sleep.

And my Australian lover hasn't emailed me back. It's been 4 days. He works as a web designer, so we all know he's on the computer/internet all the live-long day!
Apparently, SoTru got a little too truthful in her last email.

If anyone wants to hug me, I would greatly appreciate it. I need a tender touch.



*that's what SoTru's calling it now-- I'm boycotting the association of blackness with bad things. Besides, it's like someone covered up the last three hours of my night, much in the way White Out covers penmanship errors.

Trapped in the CLUTCHES OF R. KELLY!

I have come to one conclusion this weekend:

R. Kelly is an egomaniacal genius.

Yes, I watched the latest installment of his urban opera-- a.ka. 'hip-hopera'-- 'Trapped in the Closet.'

And I don't think I've had so many emotional orgasms in one hour.

Chapters 13-22 begin with what may be the greatest recap in the history of cinema and television. First of all, R. Kelly is dressed in a blindingly white suit-- he is a black angel Gabriel. As he comments on the action thus far, he uses the refrain "Oh SHIT!!"-- Which is exactly how the viewer feels with each twist and turn.

LOOK!!! It's THREE R. Kellys! And they are all saying "OH SHIT!!" And I'm sitting there, going "OH SHIT!" not only because TITC is so intense, but because there are now THREE R. KELLYS for my eyes to feast upon!!!

Anyway, after the recap, we are brought to 13, where Sylvester and Twan "embark on a serious errand." I am on the edge of the couch-- not only due to the drinking game that I've invented, which requires you take a sip of your DRANK every time someone brandishes a barretta--but because Twan is one of the most capable can-do ex-convicts I've ever seen. Any mission he's on has to be for serious. In chapter 5(ish), Twan comes to his sister Gwendolyn's house straight from his 3-year prison stint, only to be shot in the scuffle between Sylvester and the policeman. As Gwendolyn says, "my brother's been through alot/and now to come home from prison and get shot," we instantly feel sympathy for this innocent bystander-- and this sympathy becomes awe as Twan refuses to go to a hospital to tend to his gunshot wound. He simply asks for the bathroom, where, in a McGuyver-esque fashion, he cleans and covers his beefy arm with gauze.

Clearly, Twan spent those three years in prison studying for the MCATs and getting an associate's degree in nursing. And doing bicep curls.
As Sly drives, Twan begins to roll a marijuana cigarette-- much to Sylvester's dismay. "Man, you must be crazier than a fish with titties if you think you're gonna smoke that in here," he sings.

Yes. Re-read that again. CRAZIER THAN A FISH WITH TITTIES. This is the only phrase I will ever use to describe something ridiculous again.

Anyway, this errand involves Sylvester meeting with Kathy-- aka Queen of the Black TRESSES! Her hair is unbe-weave-able, and her blonde locks make her a bit hard to identify for those who aren't sufficiently obsessed with every twist and turn of this magnum opus.

As Sly and Kit-Kat recap their issues in the diner over dranks, their waitress continues to butt in, and tells them to "keep it real" as Sly leaves her a hefty tip. Initially, this character with the odd twitch seems be as irrelevant as Rosie the nosy neighbor, but by now I've learned better than to doubt R. Every character who appears in this seedy version of a Tyler Perry musical has a purpose, and will undoubtedly carry a mysterious "package."

Their waitress is none other than TINA, the woman who Twan blames for his prison sentence. And she works with Roxanne, a cook at the restaurant who jumps from the kitchen holding a skillet, ready to bust some heads. Twan bursts into the restuarant, hell bent on exacting vengance on these two good-for-nothing hos. R. Kelly reminds him what awaits him if he acts on his rage: life in prison. Here, we see Professor R. making an insightful commentary on the US Prison system: those who enter rarely leave with a chance at rehabilitation.

We discover through excellent flashbacks (almost Hitchcockian in their scope and vision) that Tina never ratted out Twan because.... SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY.

OF COURSE she was. What else I was expecting, I don't know.

Chapters 15-17 explore this former trio's past and their future, as we now learn that Tina and Roxanne are an item.

This is R. Kelly's second introduction of a homosexual relationship into the world of TITC. What is shocking here is that, unlike in the case of Chuck and Rufus, R. Kelly is less judgmental of Tina and Roxanne's union. He brandishes his baretta (for the 75th time), but falters, saying, "Y'all lucky I like that kinda shit, or both y'all asses would be dead." What R. Kelly does here is perpetuate the stereotype that lesbians are hotter than regular women-- and, in this instance, they should actually be allowed to live and thrive, like characters in a BET version of "The L Word."

Chapter 18 wrenches us from the gorgeous visions of lesbian love and shuttles us to the church, where we see Pastor Rufus in his chair of holy righteousness (though we all know he's living life on the down low). R. Kelly employs his second wig as he embodies the choir leader, and sings to the city's head pimp, Lucious (also played by R. Kelly). Clearly, R. has taken a page from the Eddie Murphy book of blackting-- use wigs and prosthetics to become as many humorous 1-dimensional characters as possible, thereby winning your audience with your tongue-in-cheek slapstick.

BOTH OF THESE MEN ARE R. KELLY!!! He is both pimp and churchgoer, good and evil. Brilliant!

As the choir sings to Lucious to find Jesus, we see that Chuck has called Rufus on his celly and begs him to come back. Chuck even threatens Rufus with contacting the media, and Rufus asks if he can see him. Chuck tells him no, because... HE'S IN THE HOSPITAL!!!
Cut to Chuck in a wheelchair with bandages around his head.

In the span of no more than 48 hours, Chuck has gone from a sassy, knife-wielding, popped collar-wearing virile black male to an incontinent hospital patient who has had some sort of brain surgery.

The only answer: he's got "the package."

Nosy Rosie's husband Randolph overheard Chuck and Rufus' conversation while hiding in the-- yep, you guessed it-- CLOSET of Rufus' office. He immediately goes to his gossiping wife and tells her that Chuck has "the package." This then leads to a dynamic and emotionally intense telephone tree (you know, the kind the PTA used to tell each other what to bring to the bake sale) where every character discusses who may or may not have "the package."

WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PACKAGE?????

R. Kelly never explains. While the logical conclusion would be AIDS/HIV, who calls it a package?
Oh, look honey-- UPS just brought us a brand new bundle of AIDS!!!!!

I don't think so. Who would ever sign off on such a package?

But, then again, logic is not what R. Kelly has proven to be about in the creation of this epic work of demoralizing black people. Would he really create a world in which NO ONE uses a condom? Even after they help each other cheat by introducing each other to possible sex partners? This seems a little too ridiculous. But, then again, Professor Kelly is crazier than a fish with titties.

And I love every minute of it.

I will actually be creating my own version, called "Locked in the Foyer," which will expose the seedy underbelly of white suburbia. It will star Joe John Sanchez III as the narrator, and Colin Casey as a meddling pool boy.

Dog Days of Summer

I am sorry y'all, but I have to rant. I have been trying my best to shake off the years of servitude and oppression that have been heaped upon brown people the world over. I try not to look at Aryan youth and see their evil ancestors, and I try not to cringe when I hear "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer"-- I used to hear "Adolf, the Mustached Hate-Mongerer."

But then I read about a Caucasian hot mess and feel like I need to call it out.

U.S. hotel billionaire Leona Helmsley (not related to BLACKtor Sherman Helmsley, from the hit show "Amen") left her dog-- a WHITE maltese named "Trouble"--TWELVE MILLION DOLLARS.

Okay, now I know White folks love their dogs. But dogs are NOT people, people! I thought it was bad enough when y'all let them lick your face and whatnot, but this is ridiculous. Do you know how many orphans you could feed with 12 million dollars? Shit, do you know how many of ME you could feed with 12 million dollars?!!

This is reason # 248 why WHITE FOLKS DON'T NEED MONEY.

They waste it! And then, when they get guilty, they start shopping at thrift stores. Oh, great, yay! YOU BEAT ALL THE POOR PEOPLE TO THE CLOTHES!

What I love is that Ms. Helmsley was nicknamed the "Queen of Mean," for her "penny-pinching and hard-nosed work ethic." So tell me what kind of flippin' work that dog did to earn 12 million dollars? Did it go down on her on a regular basis? Or is it just getting money for being WHITE?!

Whew. Sorry y'all, I just got a little heated. I can't even handle the bizarro-ness of our world when a single dog has more money than a developing country.

Massa Helmsley, can I get some veal in my puppy chow?!

The Dirrrty South.... What?!

Guys, this weekend was tough. I stepped outside of my safe space. I went below the Mason-Dixon line to ATL, aka HOT-lanta, aka The Dirrrrty South-- just because my cousin's wife decided to get knocked up.

And it took me 15 hours to get there.

I hate Delta Airlines. Like Southern character actress Delta Burke, it is shifty, untrustworthy, and full of dead weight. It failed me terribly.

Here is a timeline of the madness, which I logged as it happened, because it was so unbelievable. I don't know why I'm surprised that I was oppressed, seeing as I was heading to the South.

4:00pm: Sojourner and her mother* hop on Delta flight 521, a direct flight to ATL.

7:00pm: A voice comes over the intercom system: "Hello folks, this is Captain Everything-I-Say-Is-Unintelligible-Except-For-The-Word-'Turbulence'-And-'Stay Calm.' We've got some storm clouds and have been circling up here for a while now and are starting to run out of fuel. We're going to divert to Augusta for a moment to refuel. Just sit tight; we'll be on our way."

7:45 pm: We land in Augusta, Georgia, so that the plane can refuel. The engines are turned off, which cuts off our air conditioning.

Sojourner, along with 183 other passengers, sits in an airplane with no air conditioning for TWO HOURS.
In Georgia, in August heat.
Can you handle this truth?

9:45 pm: We are allowed to get off the plane and stand on the tarmac to keep cool. I've never been on a tarmac before. There are fire trucks and everything. I feel like it's the end of an action movie, and I'm hoping that Bruce Willis is going to get in the cockpit and make magic happen.

10:30 pm: We are all rushed back on the plane by the flight attendants/lying whores. Still skeptical, I slowly saunter onto the sauna that is Delta Flight 521. I won't believe we're taking off til the houses look like Christmas lights.

10:50 pm: We are ushered off the plane, as the Captain (who I now call "Asshole") says that due to FAA regulations, pilots cannot fly for more than 8 hours in a shift-- and we've just run out of time.

We head into the Augusta, Georgia "airport"-- at best, it can be described as a rest stop with plane-like paraphenalia on the walls. This airport has a seating capacity of about 200, and their "food court" is a yogurt stand. Which is closed. No one is allowed to get their stowed luggage, and our only sustenance is to be found in a vending machine.
Did you know Fritos come in a chili-cheese flavor?

12:15 am: We are told an alternate plane will arrive at 1:30 am, with a new, refreshed crew ready to take us to ATL. We are also told that food is on it's way.

12:30 am: An airport worker wheels in a cart filled with bottled water, potato chips, and hostess cupcakes. This is our "food"-- a trans-fat caravan. I got better eats on the plantation!

1:54 am: A plane still hasn't arrived. We are told by a sassy, surly Augusta airport whore that one will come at 3:00 am. I am sitting in the first row of seats, watching a rerun of The Nanny on Lifetime.

Now is not the time for Fran Drescher and her screechy comedy of manners. I am going to die.

3:30 am: Still no plane. Suddenly, a new airport wench tells us a plane will arrive in "3 to 8 minutes," and to use the bathroom and generally prepare to go.

4:15 am: I have decided that Delta time is the equivalent of dog years. I am talking to a nice firefighter and a sassy gay man, lamenting our fate. One man says, "We could have flown to Australia in all this time!"
I shed a tear for my lost love.

6:40 am: A plane finally arrives. I pass out as soon as I take my seat, but before my XXX-rated Harry Potter fantasy reaches a crescendo, I am brutally awakened by harsh lights.

Did I mention the flight from Augusta to Atlanta is only 20 minutes? It's also a mere 2-hour drive. Had Delta (Burke) Arlines had any sense, they would have gotten some busses and driven us to freedom (I never thought I'd refer to the South as freedom, but this is what Delta has done to me).

And when I arrived, bleary eyed and surly, I had a few hours to sleep before going to a baby shower, where good times were had by... some... I think.

This is me wearing a diaper made out of toilet paper. This was supposed to be a GAME. This 2-ply padding was rapidly applied by my mother as we competed against other female pairs. I was not allowed to help her in any way, other than raising my legs and turning my bum.

I am holding our first place prize: moisturizing antibacterial hand soap.

That's so a thing a baby shower would give you. Lame. The hostess should have been handing out condoms and IUDs, so that others don't suffer her fate.

*Who knew Sojourner's mother would still be alive?!