I HATE NEW YORK

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of a post in nearly two weeks. Things have been dark and rough for Sojourner, as the brisk fall air has rapidly turned to bone-crushing winter windiness, and I’m losing my will to go out and about. I’ve been in a bit of a stalemate, as the co-op board continues to oppress me. I had my meeting with them on Nov. 1, and have still heard nothing! Did we hook up at a party after a drunken night of debauchery? Have they been talking to Mr. Whiteley? Why are they avoiding me?!

I just want a place to live that’s not a cardboard box! Is that too much to ask? I’m just a woman of color and a writer, trying to stop the gentrification of Harlem by living and working and growing. LET ME LIVE!

I digress. This is not why I post today, gentle readers. Last night, I received a call from actor, comedian, genius Nick Cearley. It went something like this.

Sojo: Hello, Mr. Cearley. To what do I owe this honor?

Nick: Well, Sojourner, you haven’t blogged in a while, and I was worried. I called to check up on you.

Sojo: Oh, Massa Cearley, you see into my soul! It’s just been so rough out here for a blacktress and I’ve just shut down.

Nick: We need the truth, Sojourner.

Sojo: I will give it to you, Massa. The truth, the whole truth, and NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

The massa has spoken. I must blog. I must preach it. I have a potential winter spoon in the works, but seeing as he’s not foreign, crazy, or offensive, I’m going to try to create good karma and not talk about our weekend of magic. Instead, I will discuss the latest thing to rock my world: I LOVE NEW YORK.

Okay, I know I’m about two years behind with this reference, but it has only recently become a part of my life, and I have no idea how I haven’t ranted about this tramp before.

New York is single-handedly setting back the black women’s movement by 75 years. With her fake breasts—looking like two goiters—and her mangling of the English language, I am unclear on why exactly these men are vying for her affection. The episode I had the pleasure of seeing (at Litsa’s house, after having a delicious breakfast of Chinese food), involved the signing of a blood oath—or, as New York called it, a “blood OAF”—which required the men profess their love for New York, as well as present her with an object that was valuable to them.

The most touching object came from Punk, a large black man who attended Harvard law school and is an up-and-coming attorney. He has a terrible jerry curl, size DD man-breasts, and arms like ham hocks. But, looks aside, he is the smartest and most mentally sound man on the show. Why in the name of the Lord is he on reality television? To show his love for New York, he brings his deceased father’s wristwatch, and tells a touching story of how important it was to his father that he become a lawyer. New York was moved, as he pricked his finger and placed a bloody fingerprint on his oaf. (Is any of this really sanitary? I wonder, as I digest MSG and am fondled by Litsa’s lesbian dogs)

The most ridiculous object was from a man who I call… Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (I forget his real moniker). He slurs incessantly and has no concept of reality, and covers his head in gypsy-style rags—though he has no hair to speak of. He approached the altar and displays the following:

“This is a wallet my grandmuva had got in Egypt—cause she travels a lot and that’s important to me. And then there’s this ring my fava had gave to my muva. She wore it for her driving test and she failed the first time, then she wore it again and she had passed.”

Um… What?!

Instead of bringing something valuable, Fetal decided to bring two useless things. There is nothing special about a ring that your mom wore on two occasions, resulting in totally different outcomes. And, like, did his “Grandmuva” do something in Egypt? Did she at least bring back a baby Zahara or something? Why am I impressed?

Needless to say, Fetal did not sign the blood oaf and was voted off the show.

Instead, New York decides to bring back Buddha, a man who she felt was wrongly kicked off the show. “The opportunity to find true love was tooken from me,” she explained over a meal at a fancy restaurant (where her bright purple bra poked out of the top and back of her dress).

TOOKEN?

Um... I struggled to learn to read, repeatedly risked beating and death, hiding pamphlets and alphabet blocks from my masssas, only for this damn fool to say TOOKEN!

She is a disgrace to my hard work and triumph. And she insults the hard work I put in to find a winter spoon when she has a bevy of men to choose from (granted, they are mostly crazy, mildly retarded with Asperberger’s and herpes—but still).

This is a pic from a different episode, but this is the SAME BRA that was peeking out during the fancy dinner, during which she said "tooken"

COTTON gin and tonics with Gay Visionaries-- aka HALLOWEEN

Happy Halloween Everybody!

Okay, I know I’m late—it’s called CP time. Get with it.

So, it’s been a while since I blogged. It’s because there have almost been too many things to discuss!!! Let’s re-cap:

The Greek went crazy. He began sending me angry emails, hurling insults at me much in the way the god Zeus hurled lightning bolts at mere mortals for sport. He also called me, utilizing his lack of a cell phone to give me attitude and force me to speak with him. He simply could not handle the truth of the fact that I DIDN'T WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM EVER AGAIN.

Whiteley never called. He’s dead to me. I should have known not to even holla at a man who sleeps on a mattress on a floor.

I’m meeting with the co-op board tonight to see if I get my apartment!!! This is the big moment guys. Sojo will finally be free from the shackles of the oppression of her mother and her latin lover Eduardo. Keep your fingers crossed (for me) and your legs crossed (for Jesus)!

Last night was the greatest night of my life. I attended the Halloween/birthday extravaganza of the actor Nick Cearley, where gorgeous gay men were scantily clad and enjoying $5 mojitos. It was men, men everywhere—and not a drop to drink!!! While I’m normally against the “holiday” of Halloween, as it encourages people to assume alternate identities and not live up to the TRUTH, I thought I’d reclaim it and show the truth of who I once was.

I donned my old bonnet, the skirt I wore when working in the fields, and I brought some cotton balls that I’d picked in the hot, sweaty aisles of Duane Reade. I called the white men ‘Massa’ and didn’t look them in the eye—just as I used to do. I knew it might make people uncomfortable, but they don’t call me “You can’t handle the TRUTH” for nothing!

(That's me and Massa Colin, remembering the good times.)

Though I anticipated scorn, and prayed I wouldn't be attacked by someone dressed as a Black Panther, I was pleased to find that the gays could indeed handle my truth. One fine man—his name was Patrick, I believe—was wearing a green sleeveless top and booty shorts to accentuate his…. Masculinity. He came up to me and said, “Sister, where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

I was shocked. I wasn’t anticipating this introduction from a half-naked man. I faltered.

“What?” I said.

“I said—where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

“DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE!!!!!”

We began a rousing rendition of the old spiritual that my mammy used to sing to me, and he told me he was from Mississippi. We spoke of the past and how we’d changed, and the freedom we’d both enjoyed as oppressed peoples. I asked him how he could be so bold as to come out on the streets of Manhattan in such a clothing—or, bet yet, lack of clothing.

He explained to me that he was one of BLOW WHITE’S SEVEN WHORES:

Sleazy, Easy, Slutty, Bitchy, Horny, Sticky, and… COCK!

The most brilliant costume I’ve ever seen in my life. Each of these whores came into my world and showed me the TRUTH of Halloween—it’s about creativity, expressing oneself as a strong black woman/man/trans and wearing little more than a codpiece.

As I relished in the beauty of the moment and sang “Wade in the Water” with my new massas, I tall figure caught my eye. It was—No, it couldn’t be! Yes—it was!

Actor Jeff Hiller!!!!!!!

You may recall from my previous posting on the musical extravaganza Bernice Bobs Her Mullet, that Jeff Hiller is my calcium boost, gay icon, and actor/comedian extraordinaire. I have been drawn to his art since seeing him perform in the UCB group CREEP, where is I was drawn to his height, his rapier wit, and subtle-yet-effective fashion sense. When I saw him as Draycott Deyo in Joe Major’s magnum opus, my friend crush grew deeper. And now, it could become real.

I instantly stopped Jeff in his tracks, as he made his way over to the birthday boy. I told him my name, showed him my cotton balls, and told him I would be his surrogate, should the need ever arise. I spoke in run-on sentences, explained how I had TiVo’d the two commercials he’s currently featured in, and called him “Massa Hiller.”

Jeff could handle the truth!!!!!!! He laughed, he didn’t fear the blacktress, and he was everything I dreamed he’d be. After letting him say his hellos and work the room, I moved in again, apologizing for my intensity. I asked him about his craft, how he became so self-actualized (and tall), and what I could do to get out there as a blacktress. I told him I would be the Mel to his Flight of the Conchords. His response:
“Oh, you mean my friend Kristin?”

SHUT THE FLIP UP! How could he just drop that Nagasaki bomb on me like it wasn’t no thang?! I lost it, I had to be torn away and escorted to the underground railroad so that I could go home.I think he thought I was drunk.

I wasn’t.

But I think I may have finally found my baby daddy.

Everyone who reads this should look Jeff up on MySpace and totally become his friend. Tell him Sojourner sent you. He’ll know what it means.

Okay, back to work on the plantation!

The Unanswerable Question-- I Need Your Help!

So, as you know, I had a wonderful Friday night- Saturday morning date (holla!) with Whiteley.

It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).

Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.

Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!

As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!

Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!

Walkin' in a Whiteley Wonderland....

I’m really taking the motto of ‘erase, replace, embrace new face’ to heart. I think I have a new crush. After only two dates, I've weighed the facts:

PROS	CONS
-he’s not Australian -he’s not foreign in any way -he’s a tall glass of skim milk (I don’t want osteoporosis) -he’s not a racist -he doesn’t want to cum on my face -he has no idea what a black fur shrug is, let alone has the urge to purchase one. -he's not blacktose intolerant.	-he lives deep in Brooklyn (long-distance relationship) -he’s currently (f)unemployed -he’s from Indiana (which is kinda foreign) -he’s a starving artist -he doesn’t call me every day in a stalkerly fashion (I need constant reassurance) - his last name is WHITELEY!

Should it in some way be illegal for me to date a man with the last name Whiteley? I can’t decide. And it took me damn near an hour on the underground railroad just to get to his crib—can I really make this trek in the depths of winter?? Well, seeing as it’s damn near 80 degrees a week before Halloween, maybe I have a little time before I start worrying about the winter trek.

I think my real hesitation comes from the fact that I’ve been putting all the work into this imaginary relationship. I have initiated dates 1 and 2, and I’m wondering how into Sojo this whitey—I mean, WHITELEY—is. On one hand, his (f)unemployed status means that I’m the one with the schedule that needs to be accommodated, so perhaps that’s why he’s letting me take the reigns. Then again, it could be that he’s a lazy hot mess. How will I be able to find out without getting emotionally oppressed?

I know I should just let him call me and see what happens. But I can’t help but want to cook him lasagna and spoon him in his college dorm-style bedroom. Besides, the TRUTH of the matter is that I like him. He's cute. I'm bored. I want to cuddle. And he's not doing anything else. So, let's get it on til the break of dawn!

No? Too much? Leave advice.

Where Am I?

So, I'm sitting here, packaging artists' slides and listening to music, creating a cocoon of productivity, when the mail guy rolls by my cubicle/veal pen with his cart. Mail guy is middle aged, bald, and has about 2 good teeth-- hot mess. He likes to chat, and I try to be friendly, so we have a rapport (and sometimes I get free interoffice envelopes). However, I do like to maintain a certain distance-- not only due to his breath, but because he's a little too chatty for my taste.

And this time, he went a bit too far.

"Hey Naomi, I got something for you."

I turn around, as mail guy often says this-- and it's ALWAYS MAIL. I mean, what else would he have for me? Yet, he always says he's got "something," as though we have secret exchanges. Hmm... maybe he's referring to the same PACKAGE as R. Kelly.

Anyway, I look and see that mail guy is holding.... a giant plastic green bottle, filled with confetti, a copy of Parenting magazine (with Shrek on the cover), and other treats.

WHAT?!

"That is not for me, Mail Guy."

"Yes it is, look," he says, gesturing towards the bottles opening, where there is a large slit. "It's a piggy bank, too. I thought you could use it. It's a bottle and it's a piggy bank."

Again, I ask, WHAT?!

"Mail Guy, give that to whoever it belongs to."

He begins to roll away, laughing, "You know I take care of you, girl. I look out."

What is happening today?

The bottle was this big. Seriously. Wait, no-- it was BIGGER.

Mondays With Artists....

Okay, I know that technically today is Thursday, but I like the idea of a theme of sorts, so I’ve decided to use the same title as before. For background, see my previous post on the crazies I encounter via telephone at my place of employment. The following conversation was much more brief than Ms. Tembly, but still managed to pack enough discomfort in 3 minutes that I felt the need to share it with you. Read on, gentle reader….

Sojourner: Hello Ms. Sharp, this is Sojourner Truth, returning your call.

Sharp: Oh, yes, hello. I spoke with your advertising office yesterday and got some information. See, I’d been confused about my ad placement. I had been advertising online, thinking it was affiliated with your magazine, but it’s actually another publication.

Sojo: I see, I see. Will you be placing an ad in our directory this year?

Sharp: Yes, I will. I’ve been out of the business for a while. (she then proceeds to tell me the following in a casual, almost offhand manner, as though she reciting her grocery list): My son was living with me for a while, then he got sick and died, and I lost a couple of years of my life, so I’m getting the business side of things in order.

Sojo: I’m sorry.

(I really didn’t know what to say. I was uncomfortable. This was much, much more than I needed to know—and had very little to do with the ad she was placing. )

Sharp: I love your magazine, but I live up in the sticks-- with a Nazi magazine retailer who doesn’t carry any of the publications I like.

(Harsh words—I see ‘Sharp’ isn’t just a clever surname. This woman is fierce.)

Sojo: We can start you on a subscription if you’d like.

(The attempt to see her the magazine is part of my new motto, ABC—Always Be Closing. You’ve gotta be workin’ it 24/7 365)

Sharp: Oh, I can’t do that. You see, Sojourner, on my social security income I can’t afford to subscribe to any magazines.

Uh-oh…I’ve just made things worse and more awkward.

Sharp: I’m living on basically $10- $15 per day, which comes out to roughly $3 per hour. And I’ve been calling my congressman to raise the social security so that it at least matches minimum wage, but it’s a losing battle.

Sojo: Oh, hell to the no, Ms. Sharp—that’s a hot mess!!!

Sharp: It is, Sojourner.

(We share a moment of silence, bonded over our oppression. Though, quite frankly, I made less than that as a slave, and I managed to still add some spice to my food.)

Sharp: Do you still write articles on artists.

(Um, yeah… that’s what we do.)

Sojo: Of course!

Sharp: Well, I’d love to submit my work for your review. I’ve been working on a 2008 calendar that I think shows great pieces.

Sojo: Great! I’ll send you our guidelines, all right?

I take down her e-mail address and mentally promise to donate some money to her life. It’s a hand up, not a hand out.

Let Me Tell You aSTORIa... About a Greek Man...

The Greek is over.

Cue strings.

After only 5 "dates," Zeus is out of the picture. I know that in Greek mythology gods can't "die," but Apollo is dead... to me. Yes, folks-- Poseidon has drowned, Hermes has run out of frequent flier miles, Ajax can no longer clean stains.

Friday night, Ambrosia and I headed to Queens for some.... one on one time. It was time to act on the tension.

Apparently it was also time for me to act impressed! Turns out Achilles' weakness isn't his heel-- if you know what I mean (and I think you do....*). I'd been anticipating tenderness and hotness, but it was rushed and lukewarm at best. I should also mention that Zeus had a tank of geckos in his bedroom.

I don't like to be watched, especially by animals peddling car insurance.

After a fitful night's sleep (apparently, they don't have indoor heating in Queens), I woke up and Zeus and I cuddled. I wondered when I was going to get my morning post-coital omelette. Instead, Odysseus excitededly told me he had a present for me and went to the closet.

What could it be? A key to his kingdom in Kalamata (yes, like the olives)?! A toga made of pure silk? A life-size drawing of my sleeping nude ebony figure?

It was a black fur shrug purchased at a thrift store.

I kid you not.

I'm not good at hiding my emotions (see previous posts, re: TRUTH), so forcing a smile was difficult. "Is this for me?" I asked, hoping he'd think my shock was born out of excitement. I'm clearly a much better blacktress than I thought, because he excitedly removed it from the hanger and told me to try it on.

"I thought it would look nice because of the black on black and the soft fur," he explained. He also admitted that he had purchased it for me after our second date.

I wanted to tell him it was a black on black crime, and he should be ashamed of his damn self for even looking at-- let alone purchasing-- such an abomination. But I didn't, cause it's the thought that counts.

The question is-- what was he thinking?!

As we headed out of the house (hopefully to get food, though this had yet to be determined), my dear sweet Litsa called, seeking blacktress council. I chatted with her for a while, then got off the phone so as not to be rude to Oedipus (this is a fitting name, as he recently told me he calls his mother 'little whore'-- WHAT?!). I filled him in on our chat, just to make him feel included and share some tenderness-- big mistake.

This ended up sparking a whole tirade on the "trivialities of people's lives," and how I shouldn't even offer advice because people will do what they want to do.

Zeus has no soul. And he won't feed me. And he requires extensive travel for lackluster love. And he doesn't have a cell phone.

There are geckos in his room.

He bought me a black fur shrug.

Need I say more?

Time to erase, replace, embrace a new face! Help-- only 4 weeks til Thanksgiving, and I wanna be thankful for a good man!

*it's his penis. Apparently those statues aren't out of proportion after all! (yes, I went there!)