English: The Language of Love

I´m sure many of you are wondering about Sojourner´s romantic life abroad. After all, what is this blog other than sordid stories of awkward pseudo-romantic and pseudo-sexual interactions? I promise I will not disappoint the pervy ones who enjoy hearing about my "dating." There´s a lot to tell, so you may want to read this in bits.

In summation: The Brits like the blacktress-- especially the American ones.

My first night, my lovely hostess Aditi took me to an Australian bar called THE WALKABOUT. Now, many of you know how much I love a good theme, and this establishment took theirs to the max. The tvs on the wall played loops of tanned people surfing, they had all the local beers on tap, and they even had a ´down under bar´which was downstairs and had kangaroos on the walls.

We showed up (fully pre-gamed, cause the pound ain´t no joke) and took in the multi-culti scene. They were closing early, unfortch, but we were directed to the sister location in Leicester Square (by the way, that word is pronounced ´lester´-- why, i don´t know). We ordered a pitcher and I noticed a random wearing a Yankees hat. I called him over and asked him why he was repping my homeland (the sweater tied around his waist was a dead giveaway that he wasn´t American). Turned out he was from Chile, and we got to practice our Spanish as 10 people-- clearly towards the tail end of a drunken office party-- got crunked on dranks and danced to early 90s American pop hits.

As Aditi and I headed to the bar to contemplate ordering something else toxic and delicious, the dudes in front of us were ordering. Overhearing our American accents, they turned and said, ¨Do you want a shot?" Clearly, I took this shot with eagerness and we ended up chilling with the office crowd, a mix of Brits and Aussies. Before I know it, a 6´4" tall glass of English milk starts dancing with me-- he had a Hugh Grant vibe, with spectacles and paleness. His name was Tristan and he was a barister--aka lawyer. He immediately asks if I want to go outside with him. HAHAHA! I may have been foreign, but I wasn´t born yesterday, Hugh.

After more dancing, we left the dance floor so I could get my English makeout. It was decent. He kept being verbose and English, asking me before he did anything, and kept referring to me as "delectable." He was even asking me to go home with him! eep! I explained to Tristan that in FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, Hugh was far more bumbling and awkward with Andie McDowell, and I expected less masculinity from him-- and I´d just gotten here and was no way in hell going to the random beaudoir of a strange man, no matter how close to Piccadilly Circus he lives.

More making out occurred and then Aditi and I left. While Hugh and I did the requisite cell number exchange and he told me I "meant a lot to him," I left it as the one-time thing it was meant to be. You can imagine my surprise when, while on my "magical pub discovery journey" with my English husband (more on him later) Hugh/Tristan called me to tell me what a great time he had and asked if I was available for tonight. As much as I was flattered and shocked by his follow-through, I´d much rather chill with my friends than go running after a random Hugh Grant-- it was my vacay, after all; I spend enough time running after dudes in America.

Cut to Saturday night: Celebrating my last night in London, I figured that the best thing to do would be to go out all night, seeing as I had such an early flight to catch to get to Spain. Aditi and I head went out in her neighborhood, first heading to a cocktail bar to just check out the scene. While in the loo, I met this great girl named Michelle, who said she´d help me get my British kiss on my last night. Clearly, we became new best friends, and we ended up going out with her and her crew, which included two random dudes and a woman who Aditi and I called ROCKSTAR. She had short platinum blond hair, wore shiny patent leather pants with converse high tops, and a black wife beater. She was rock n roll personified.

And, in true rock n roll fashion, she directed us to a bar called THE FUNKY MUNKY. I kid you not. At the entrance, I saw a tall, strapping gentleman having his cigarette. I thought nothing of it (other than "holla at an international playa!") and went inside to dance and be debaucherous. Another bathroom run led me to two British girls who wanted to take a photo with me because I was from New York City. This was the second time this had happened to me on my journey, so I was less surprised. Sojourner´s face will be featured in an Australian birthday album, an English office party website, and now probably on two random chicks´MySpace profiles.

Anyway, somehow I end up talking to the tall British man once inside and he bought me a DRANK. We end up smooching, I explain that I´m heading to Spain the next day. He then says he will come to Barcelona and stay with me. HA! Can you imagine?! He swears he´s serious, we exchange contact info, and I head out.

So, that´s that. Fun times, right? There was also the 39 year old Irishman who kept telling me I was very curvy and had a hot body. He looked kinda like Shrek´s half brother, so we won´t discuss that.

London Calling, Pt. 2

I am currently in Spain, sitting in the oficina of my step-aunt and uncle. If this post contains several typos, I apologize in advance; i am having problemas with this keyboard.

anyway, i got in to spain at noon yesterday, and hadn´t slept since friday night-- and even that sleep was questionable. It was a whirlwind three days, involving meeting relatives I didn´t know I had (an unearthing daddy drama), going on a "magical pub discovery adventure" with a friend who hadn´t seen in 2.5 years, and getting crunked on the streets of LDN. Things I´ve learned:
- Brits don´t think it´s funny when you´re walking through the tube/subway station and start singing "America, Fuck Yeah! Coming again to save the muthafuckin´day, yeah!"
- Chips means "french fries." And, funny enough, actual potato chips are called ¨crisps."
- The customer is never right. The sassy attitude of the English server makes no apologies for f-ing up your order.
- You can not go walking around Notting Hill asking strangers where you can find Julia Roberts.
- The English lad epitomizes the word "strapping"-- you will never get osteoporosis on this side of the pond.
- The next time Brits start talking about fat Americans, remind them about the English breakfast: beans, toast, eggs, bacon AND sausage, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms. Seriously, all as on meal.
- I am indeed not black enough. When meeting my Nigerian relatives, the question of my "African side" was raised, as it was a bit upsetting to them that I interact with the white Other and had no Nigerian pals. If only they knew about my romantic life.....

London, Part 1....

Greetings from London!

Sojo is in the land of the great colonizer. On the day that we celebrate the arrival of the English in America, I have chosen to leave and head over here. So far, it's been pretty stress-free travel. I knew the trip was blessed when one of the featured movies was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix-- I think we all know how i feel about Harry Potter V! My goal for the overnight flight was to crack open a bottle of airplane wine and drift to sleep with visions of HP in my head. This indeed happened, and I even managed to score a second bottle of airplane wine, which I've tucked away in my pocketbook for later-- yes, I'm that cheap.
Primarily because I changed 245 US dollars and was given £106!!!! I am screwed. They aren't fucking around with the pound!

I'm currently writing this post from a place I was sure would be a safe haven for a woman of color, writer, and former slave such as myself: A computer lab in the School of Oriental and African Studies, in central London. As the name suggests, they are down with the study of the BROWN; everyone and their mother is a fan of the OTHER! I thought we could talk politics, and maybe I'd read them an excerpt from my famous speech "Ain't I A Woman?" Unfortunately, they can't handle the TRUTH.

These kids are all kinds of oppressed-- and not in the good way. In the last 30 minutes I've counted 12 white folks with dreadlocks (HOT MESS!!), one white girl in a sari, and some random dude rocking a staten island hoodie. On my way to the lab, I passed a student meeting about "LGBT issues." Um, I went to Wesleyan-- if they've only got 4 letters to their issues, they don't even know the half of it. But clearly they just love walking around in this dreary rainy weather under their umbrellas of oppression, cause everyone was all abuzz with talk about "issues."

It reminded me of Wesleyan, only with everyone more foreign-- and, as a result, more attractive. As I look around, I try to find potential foreign hotties. I was even tempted-- by Litsa, of course-- to sign up for a rendezvous on london.craigslist.org. I mean, think of the fodder for comedy?!

But then I remembered that such behavior would probably end up with me on the front page of The NY Post, with some tacky, inappropriate headline that attempts to pun and rhyme, while also abbreviating, like, "Put on Black Dress for dead BlackTRESS" or "Say it loud, I'm black and I'm... dead."

More to come as the quest for an English muffin continues....

Mondays With Artists

Yeah, it's Wednesday, whatever.

But I had to share this ridiculous press release that came to my attention this morning. I won't use the artist's name, but this is at the very top of her press release:

Ms. Anderson is a passionate woman. She's passionate about life, she's passionate about family--and she's really, really passionate about cutlery.
That's right, cutlery: forks, knives, and spoons.
They are, according to Anderson, so much more than they appear.

What? What the hell does this mean? I love that cutlery trumps family and life. Cutlery IS life.

Clearly, this woman has no one to love and nothing else to do, and she's surrounded by people who lead her to believe her love for cutlery qualifies as "Art" and not "Mental Illness."

The end of the press release says she's available for interviews; I may have to call her up. I think she may need the Sojourner Truth.

I should also mention that this quote is from an excerpt from a longer article in the "Costco Connection 2007" Has anyone heard of this publication? I assume you receive it with your bulk items. Why haven't I been writing for this magazine? Clearly, they'll take anything.

Are you passionate about cutlery? What about when it.... glows?

SoundZ Like FUN!

So, I am trying to regain my blacktress-blogger work ethic by providing more than one post a week. I blame the fact that I haven’t posted on yet another discovery in my life:The bar/club Soundz.

Yes, that’s with a ‘z’. Located on Broadway, between 124^th and 125^th streets, I like to think Soundz is singlehandedly responsible for the Harlem Renaissance of the new millennium—aka Gentrification in the 21^st Century.

Oh, sidebar: Don’t you hate when you’re talking to someone and get the words ‘genocide’ and ‘gentrification’ confused?

Anyway, back to Soundz. I first attended with Litsa (obvi) and the uni-testicular failure who will go unnamed. I wanted to prove my pimp hand was strong, so I offered to buy them drinks. I ordered a beer, a wine, and a cocktail, and the total was…. 12 DOLLARS!!!

Thank god someone’s keeping liquor accessible to the black community—and Columbia students! $12 for 3 drinks. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I would have to say that ends up being $4 per drink—on a Friday night! Holla at a broke playa!

We sidle up the bar, where we talk to the bartender—a grad student who pours drinks heartily and with affection. Once on the plush red velveteen couches, we are socially attacked by Aziz and Amir, two brown men who clearly lack social skills—and no, it’s not cause they’re brown! Aziz was wearing a wedding band on his right hand and tried to front like he wasn’t married; and Amir told me my hat was sexy.

Um, it’s wasn’t lace. My breast wasn’t popping out of it. There’s nothing sexy about Banana Republic knitwear. Besides, I was clearly all up on another man who I would soon discover had one testicle—clearly, I wasn’t Amir’s for the taking.

My next voyage to SoundZ was last Wednesday, and it was me, Litsa, and several middle aged black men. Now, I should mention that Soundz is under the train tracks—which would explain why it attracts such rif raf. Litsa and I told the bartender about how we plan to make a documentary about this location, with it’s red light special-lighting, unnecessary velvet rope outside (no one’s clamoring to get in), and patrons who eat Chinese food and McDonald’s from neighboring establishments. I’m also hoping to turn it into some sort of dating game, in which the winning contestants receive an all-expenses-paid trip to the bathroom, where magic happens and babies are made!

Passport to Freedom

Dear Readers/Equals,

I am heading to Europe to spread the truth. Starting Wednesday, I will spend 3 days in London, where I will say “Frosted Flakes” when they say “Cheerio!” and then head to Barcelona, where I will tell LA VERDAD! Though it may seem odd to leave this country on one of our highest of holy days-- Thanksgiving-- I feel it is on the day of celebrating the oppression of a minority that I must escape.

I’m excited for this getaway primarily because the United States is heaping oppression on me like we’re back in slave days. How, you may ask?

1. I did not get the co-op. Apparently, I’m not good enough to live in a newly renovated crack den. Fine then, let them gentrify it and don’t blame me when the Columbia kids leave the doors unlocked and everyone gets jacked!!

2. I was rejected by a 25 year old actor who is new to this fair city and has one testicle. Um, excuse me? While I was initially drawn to the fact that he was a survivor, and could perhaps relate to oppression and darkness (as well as the dark woman), it turns out I really should have focused on the most important part of his identity: he’s an ACTOR. Though I am a blacktress, and appreciate the artistic yearning, actors often have the following traits which prevent them from being true:
- They are egotistical.

- They are broke

- They sleep on twin-sized air mattresses.

- They live in non-renovated crack dens.

But they also often have a charm and charisma which is dangerous when unleashed. And I must admit I was the victim of yet another performer, another player on life’s stage. And he indeed played me—much like a remake of a Shakespearean drama starring the latest Hollywood tart-let.

Clearly, the quest for the winter spoon is not going so well. So I now pack my bags, head to foreign lands, and hope for the best. And by “the best” I mean, “copious amounts of food, non-awkward fetishizing of my Nubian beauty, and sexy accents.”

Wish me luck. I may not return.

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"