Guys, this is getting ridiculous.
I was walking across 12th street during my lunch hour, and I was stopped on the corner of 6th avenue, waiting for the light to change. As I stared off into space, enjoying the taste of summer weather, a voice called to the blacktress.
"Excuse me, miss, could you help me cross the street?"
I look down and to my left and see the tiniest, most precious old White lady.
"Yes, of course," I say.
Then, there's an awkward moment, cause the light doesn't say "WALK" yet, but we've already established a relationship. So, I make some small talk.
"It's such a nice day, isn't it?"
"Yes. I had a hip replacement, and my balance isn't what it used to be."
She says this as my attempt at small talk was actually a probe into her personal health.
The light changed and we crossed.
Dude, how does this keep happening to me? Old ladies see me and just want me to help them get across the street.
And, just like last time, I think this a get-out-of-jail-free card for the next week or so.
I guess I don't need to worry about all that unprotected sex anymore--JK (rowling), guys!!!!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Forget Me Not
Last night, while hanging out with my main gay JJS iii, I received a voicemail from a man with whom I engaged in a makeout session Saturday evening. I was mildly excited to see a missed call from an unidentified number, and had a sneaking suspicion it might be him.
The male in question was someone I had met months earlier at a stand up comedy show (we were both performing), and his wry wit and inherent dorkiness endeared him to me, and I asked him if we could go on a date (you know this blacktress is upfront!!). We went on a semi-date, and while there was a fun comedic rapport, I could tell he had about as much interest in me as a gay man has in a vagina.
But he isn’t gay.
Cut to 5 months later—May 10, 2008. At the party of blacktor Victor Varnado, the comedian/disinterested date and I are reunited, and there is much merrymaking. He’s suddenly all up in a blacktress’s George Foreman (grill) like a horndog on prom night, and I wonder what has changed. I figured I best not over-think it, especially with me Australia-bound in a few months time—now, more than ever, we don’t love these hos. I figured I could get my makeout on and end up just fine.
We had a nice time, and there was a bit of me that felt a little boost from getting with an unrequited crush, even though I was no longer crushing. I felt all was right in the world. Perhaps, like Joni Mitchell, he didn’t know what he’d got til it was gone, and now he was carpe-ing the diem and getting with this.
He kissed me again, before leaving the party at 3am, apparently to “go fishing with a friend in Long Island City, Queens”—a sentence that made little sense at the time, but I thought it best to overlook it.
I was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice on my answering machine Monday evening.
That is, until the message went on.
It went something like this:
Hey Sojourner, this is D-Bag McGee. It is 6:30 on Monday and I have an incredibly awkward question to ask you, and that is…uh…what did we do Saturday night at Victor’s party--because I have no recollection whatsoever because I drank too much and my mind is absolutely a blank slate, so there’s a big question mark as to what happened at Victor’s party--did I break some windows, did I steal things? I have no idea what happened, and uh…yeah…. [then, the following he said in a sing-song voice]: I hope everything’s okay, I hope I didn’t do anything bad, I feel embarrassed and awkward, bye!
I. Shit. You. Not.
I literally just transcribed the message from my phone, where it is eternally saved.
I honestly think when I was born, the man upstairs looked at my wet, placenta-juice-covered body and said, “let’s give this one something to blog about.”
Now, some of my most loyal readers know that I, too, have engaged in too much drink in one evening, and suffered from what I am now calling a Whiteout (see Friday Night Amstel Lights for details). I mean, we’ve all been there.
But we do NOT go there with a blacktress.
W. T. F?! I mean, nothing is more insulting than calling someone and saying, “I don’t remember making out with you.” This was no random mid-dance smooch. This was much dirty dancing foreplay (foreplay is MORE play—holla!), and then a hard-core makeout session, which was briefly interrupted by the party host (who jumped on top of us and called us tramps) and then resumed!!! It was then followed by a long conversation in the living room, where I sat on his lap as though he was Santa and he told me I was really hot and cute (I mean, he was speaking TRUTH, obvi).
How could he blackout on a blacktress?!
You know I called that bitch back posthaste and let him know what was what. Our conversation went something like this:
[phone rings. He answers.]
Sojo: You are such a d-bag.
D-Bag: What?
Sojo: I said, you are such a d-bag.
D-Bag (hesitantly): Why?
Sojo: We made out last night.
And I’m pregnant.
And I’m keeping it.
D-Bag (a quiet terror): Ha…?
Sojo (as though speaking to the character of Corky from the television series “Life Goes On”): Seriously, we made out. Like, what?! You don’t remember?!
D-Bag (quiet terror still seeps through the phone lines): No…. I just, like, don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is us all talking in the DDR room, and then me waking up at my friend’s place.
Sojo: Well, you missed a good time, D-bag McGee. You should have been there.
D-Bag: I was soooo out of it.
Sojo: I’m sorry you were “so out of it,” I didn’t mean to take advantage of you by letting you kiss me. If I’d known you weren’t in your right mind, I certainly wouldn’t have put my lips on yours.
D-Bag: No, no, you shouldn’t feel bad, it’s my fault.
Sojo: I was being sarcastic. Of course I don’t feel bad—if anything, I now have the upper hand, because you feel silly.
D-Bag: God, I was sooo drunk.
Sojo: Um, could you stop saying that? You’re making me feel bad.
D-Bag (taking long pause): Um….sorry, I’m here, I’m just digesting all this….
Sojo: You blacked out on a blacktress!!!!
D-Bag: Yeah, um….
Sojo: You might want to handle your alcoholic scandal. Be careful out there. Bye.
[We hang up, and luckily, with my main gay by my side, I am able to resume my normal activities.]
Okay, let the record show that this dude is 33 years old—or, I should say, 33 years YOUNG. How are you 33, calling up a fine-ass blacktress such as myself, with no recollection? Shouldn’t you know how to hold your liquor by the age of 33?! And repeatedly saying he was drunk just made me feel like I was some gross mistake he made, like filling in the wrong bubble on a standardized test, or accidentally drinking baby’s blood.
I am seriously done with the male gender. This is what that random college student was talking about in that paper I graded a month back.
What has become of the world when a man can call you up and just TELL YOU he forgot about making out, and then, when hearing the news, instead of rejoicing, he openly expresses his horror and distaste?!!
WHAT IS MY LIFE???
Reason #249 I need to blow this popstand.
The male in question was someone I had met months earlier at a stand up comedy show (we were both performing), and his wry wit and inherent dorkiness endeared him to me, and I asked him if we could go on a date (you know this blacktress is upfront!!). We went on a semi-date, and while there was a fun comedic rapport, I could tell he had about as much interest in me as a gay man has in a vagina.
But he isn’t gay.
Cut to 5 months later—May 10, 2008. At the party of blacktor Victor Varnado, the comedian/disinterested date and I are reunited, and there is much merrymaking. He’s suddenly all up in a blacktress’s George Foreman (grill) like a horndog on prom night, and I wonder what has changed. I figured I best not over-think it, especially with me Australia-bound in a few months time—now, more than ever, we don’t love these hos. I figured I could get my makeout on and end up just fine.
We had a nice time, and there was a bit of me that felt a little boost from getting with an unrequited crush, even though I was no longer crushing. I felt all was right in the world. Perhaps, like Joni Mitchell, he didn’t know what he’d got til it was gone, and now he was carpe-ing the diem and getting with this.
He kissed me again, before leaving the party at 3am, apparently to “go fishing with a friend in Long Island City, Queens”—a sentence that made little sense at the time, but I thought it best to overlook it.
I was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice on my answering machine Monday evening.
That is, until the message went on.
It went something like this:
Hey Sojourner, this is D-Bag McGee. It is 6:30 on Monday and I have an incredibly awkward question to ask you, and that is…uh…what did we do Saturday night at Victor’s party--because I have no recollection whatsoever because I drank too much and my mind is absolutely a blank slate, so there’s a big question mark as to what happened at Victor’s party--did I break some windows, did I steal things? I have no idea what happened, and uh…yeah…. [then, the following he said in a sing-song voice]: I hope everything’s okay, I hope I didn’t do anything bad, I feel embarrassed and awkward, bye!
I. Shit. You. Not.
I literally just transcribed the message from my phone, where it is eternally saved.
I honestly think when I was born, the man upstairs looked at my wet, placenta-juice-covered body and said, “let’s give this one something to blog about.”
Now, some of my most loyal readers know that I, too, have engaged in too much drink in one evening, and suffered from what I am now calling a Whiteout (see Friday Night Amstel Lights for details). I mean, we’ve all been there.
But we do NOT go there with a blacktress.
W. T. F?! I mean, nothing is more insulting than calling someone and saying, “I don’t remember making out with you.” This was no random mid-dance smooch. This was much dirty dancing foreplay (foreplay is MORE play—holla!), and then a hard-core makeout session, which was briefly interrupted by the party host (who jumped on top of us and called us tramps) and then resumed!!! It was then followed by a long conversation in the living room, where I sat on his lap as though he was Santa and he told me I was really hot and cute (I mean, he was speaking TRUTH, obvi).
How could he blackout on a blacktress?!
You know I called that bitch back posthaste and let him know what was what. Our conversation went something like this:
[phone rings. He answers.]
Sojo: You are such a d-bag.
D-Bag: What?
Sojo: I said, you are such a d-bag.
D-Bag (hesitantly): Why?
Sojo: We made out last night.
And I’m pregnant.
And I’m keeping it.
D-Bag (a quiet terror): Ha…?
Sojo (as though speaking to the character of Corky from the television series “Life Goes On”): Seriously, we made out. Like, what?! You don’t remember?!
D-Bag (quiet terror still seeps through the phone lines): No…. I just, like, don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is us all talking in the DDR room, and then me waking up at my friend’s place.
Sojo: Well, you missed a good time, D-bag McGee. You should have been there.
D-Bag: I was soooo out of it.
Sojo: I’m sorry you were “so out of it,” I didn’t mean to take advantage of you by letting you kiss me. If I’d known you weren’t in your right mind, I certainly wouldn’t have put my lips on yours.
D-Bag: No, no, you shouldn’t feel bad, it’s my fault.
Sojo: I was being sarcastic. Of course I don’t feel bad—if anything, I now have the upper hand, because you feel silly.
D-Bag: God, I was sooo drunk.
Sojo: Um, could you stop saying that? You’re making me feel bad.
D-Bag (taking long pause): Um….sorry, I’m here, I’m just digesting all this….
Sojo: You blacked out on a blacktress!!!!
D-Bag: Yeah, um….
Sojo: You might want to handle your alcoholic scandal. Be careful out there. Bye.
[We hang up, and luckily, with my main gay by my side, I am able to resume my normal activities.]
Okay, let the record show that this dude is 33 years old—or, I should say, 33 years YOUNG. How are you 33, calling up a fine-ass blacktress such as myself, with no recollection? Shouldn’t you know how to hold your liquor by the age of 33?! And repeatedly saying he was drunk just made me feel like I was some gross mistake he made, like filling in the wrong bubble on a standardized test, or accidentally drinking baby’s blood.
I am seriously done with the male gender. This is what that random college student was talking about in that paper I graded a month back.
What has become of the world when a man can call you up and just TELL YOU he forgot about making out, and then, when hearing the news, instead of rejoicing, he openly expresses his horror and distaste?!!
WHAT IS MY LIFE???
Reason #249 I need to blow this popstand.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Ugly Bette (Davis)
Have you ever seen the film Now, Voyager? It’s one the films the students viewed in the class I’m grading papers for, and it was one that I saw as an undergraduate film hopeful back at Diversity U.
Made in 1942, it stars Bette Davis as Charlotte Vale, an unattractive spinster who lives with her overbearing mother, who convinces her that she’s nothing, “with her bushy eyebrows and glasses.” I was discussing this with my homegirl The Persian Excursion earlier today, and she made a good point:
The Excursion: do you think that is how they got the original idea for Ugly Betty?
i mean for real though
Ugly Bette Davis
HELLO!
Coincidence? I think not.
Anyway, back to the film:
Charlotte, a frumpy adult who has never known the touch of a man, is a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown (o, "una mujer al borde de una ataque de nervios," for all you Betty La Fea fans), when a psychiatrist comes to her rescue and tells her to come to his sanatorium, luring her with candies into his white van.
I jest. He’s not a perv.
In his crazy house (which is apparently where they put anybody who was stressed or different up until 1975), Charlotte learns that she’s in fact attractive, and they trade her busted clothes for stylish ones, much like the character of Tai in Clueless, and she takes off her glasses, much like Rachel Leigh Cook in She’s All That.
After bringing her own sexy back, Charlotte decides to go on a cruise and get her head right. There, she meets a man named Jerry, who doesn’t love his wife, but stays with her for their daughter. Jerry and Charlotte clearly have a connection, but he’s married, and Charlotte’s classy.
She returns home after her cruise feeling grown and sexy—and a little sad that she’s lost a man. She quickly finds a new one, a wealthy widower who is ready to marry her. Charlotte, however, can't get over Jerry, and breaks her engagement, making her mother so angry that she has a heart attack and dies (did I mention this was a 1942 melodrama?). So what does Charlotte do?
She goes back to the sanatorium to get her head right.
She, like Winona, is a Girl, Interrupted (but unlike Winona, she doesn’t steal).
At the sanatorium, she meets Tina—JERRY’S DAUGHTER (cue music). Tina, like, Charlotte, is called an “ugly duckling,” and, in the words of TLC, feels “unpretty.” She and Charlotte bond, with Charlotte taking her under her wing and bringing her back home with her to Boston.
Jerry clearly comes to her house to see where his daughter is, and you think they’ll finally get together, but…..
Should I spoil it? You may have to see this film.
Charlotte’s last line is, "Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon... we have the stars," one of the top 100 movie quotes in American cinema (seriously, look it up).
You may be saying to yourself, “Sojourner, Bette Davis isn’t a blacktress,” or “This movie sounds lame. Why are you giving me a plot summary of a melodrama starring a random white woman? What does this have to do with me?”
Nothing. It has to do with me.
Let me explain.
I, too, grew up as an ugly duckling, and at times my mamadukes could be rough and tough on a young blacktress (you don’t know drama until you know Black Mama Drama). I’m sure if laws weren’t so strict I would have been sent away to a sanatorium just so she could get peace and quiet.
I, too, in moments of confidence, have met a man while on a foreign journey (or a foreign man on a blacktress journey), but was unable to express my love due to circumstances outside of my control (you know, he lived in Australia and had a girlfriend—those kinds of hurdles).
And, I, too, am now a voyager.
However, unlike Ugly Bette, I WILL ask for the moon, the stars—and a condo on Mars!!! (sometimes the blacktress likes to freestyle)
As I sit on the plantation, embittered and bored, I think about the possibilities for the blacktress in a foreign land.
I could open up a beauty shop, a la Queen Latifah
I could open a soul food restaurant, and let people fetishize my otherness.
I could write a book, the eagerly anticipated follow-up to my speech “Ain’t I a Woman?!” in the vein of Eat, Pray, Love—only not whiny crap.
Lee from Brisbane said she’d pick me up from the airport. Girl, how far is Brisbane from Sydney? Holla at me via gmail--aka, gangstamail!
Made in 1942, it stars Bette Davis as Charlotte Vale, an unattractive spinster who lives with her overbearing mother, who convinces her that she’s nothing, “with her bushy eyebrows and glasses.” I was discussing this with my homegirl The Persian Excursion earlier today, and she made a good point:
The Excursion: do you think that is how they got the original idea for Ugly Betty?
i mean for real though
Ugly Bette Davis
HELLO!
Coincidence? I think not.
Anyway, back to the film:
Charlotte, a frumpy adult who has never known the touch of a man, is a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown (o, "una mujer al borde de una ataque de nervios," for all you Betty La Fea fans), when a psychiatrist comes to her rescue and tells her to come to his sanatorium, luring her with candies into his white van.
I jest. He’s not a perv.
In his crazy house (which is apparently where they put anybody who was stressed or different up until 1975), Charlotte learns that she’s in fact attractive, and they trade her busted clothes for stylish ones, much like the character of Tai in Clueless, and she takes off her glasses, much like Rachel Leigh Cook in She’s All That.
After bringing her own sexy back, Charlotte decides to go on a cruise and get her head right. There, she meets a man named Jerry, who doesn’t love his wife, but stays with her for their daughter. Jerry and Charlotte clearly have a connection, but he’s married, and Charlotte’s classy.
She returns home after her cruise feeling grown and sexy—and a little sad that she’s lost a man. She quickly finds a new one, a wealthy widower who is ready to marry her. Charlotte, however, can't get over Jerry, and breaks her engagement, making her mother so angry that she has a heart attack and dies (did I mention this was a 1942 melodrama?). So what does Charlotte do?
She goes back to the sanatorium to get her head right.
She, like Winona, is a Girl, Interrupted (but unlike Winona, she doesn’t steal).
At the sanatorium, she meets Tina—JERRY’S DAUGHTER (cue music). Tina, like, Charlotte, is called an “ugly duckling,” and, in the words of TLC, feels “unpretty.” She and Charlotte bond, with Charlotte taking her under her wing and bringing her back home with her to Boston.
Jerry clearly comes to her house to see where his daughter is, and you think they’ll finally get together, but…..
Should I spoil it? You may have to see this film.
Charlotte’s last line is, "Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon... we have the stars," one of the top 100 movie quotes in American cinema (seriously, look it up).
You may be saying to yourself, “Sojourner, Bette Davis isn’t a blacktress,” or “This movie sounds lame. Why are you giving me a plot summary of a melodrama starring a random white woman? What does this have to do with me?”
Nothing. It has to do with me.
Let me explain.
I, too, grew up as an ugly duckling, and at times my mamadukes could be rough and tough on a young blacktress (you don’t know drama until you know Black Mama Drama). I’m sure if laws weren’t so strict I would have been sent away to a sanatorium just so she could get peace and quiet.
I, too, in moments of confidence, have met a man while on a foreign journey (or a foreign man on a blacktress journey), but was unable to express my love due to circumstances outside of my control (you know, he lived in Australia and had a girlfriend—those kinds of hurdles).
And, I, too, am now a voyager.
However, unlike Ugly Bette, I WILL ask for the moon, the stars—and a condo on Mars!!! (sometimes the blacktress likes to freestyle)
As I sit on the plantation, embittered and bored, I think about the possibilities for the blacktress in a foreign land.
I could open up a beauty shop, a la Queen Latifah
I could open a soul food restaurant, and let people fetishize my otherness.
I could write a book, the eagerly anticipated follow-up to my speech “Ain’t I a Woman?!” in the vein of Eat, Pray, Love—only not whiny crap.
Lee from Brisbane said she’d pick me up from the airport. Girl, how far is Brisbane from Sydney? Holla at me via gmail--aka, gangstamail!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Blacktress and Her Shrug
Below is a link to a former stand-up show for your viewing pleasure. I have been hesitant to post it, because I'm looking a bit chunky monkey on film. However, I must not let anything--even my own ego--stop me from spreading truth.
And everyone has to see this hideous shrug.
Warning: Blacktresses on youtube may seem larger than they appear.
I swear, the shrug adds ten pounds.
Part 1:
Part 2:
And everyone has to see this hideous shrug.
Warning: Blacktresses on youtube may seem larger than they appear.
I swear, the shrug adds ten pounds.
Part 1:
Part 2:
The Blacktress is Pissed
I have not felt this much anger and oppression on the plantation since my slave days.
I will call this Reason #248 that I need to go to Australia.
Yesterday, Sojourner was ravaged by stomach illness. With sharp pains and an exploding buttocks (sorry, but you know I tell the TRUTH), I sat in my veal pen—aka cubicle—until about 1pm, when I could no longer take the pain. On my way out of the building, I managed to take the elevator one flight before running off to the nearest bathroom, where I puked like a drunken college student after doing a keg stand.
I had a fever, chills, and was fearful I wouldn’t make it home in one piece. I hopped in a cab home, and laid down for the remainder of the day, waking up only to run to the toilet.
By the day’s end, I showed little signs of improvement, so I sent my massa an email, letting him know I wouldn’t be in the next day (today). In my email, I offered to work from home, seeing as my priority for the next day was to do work on our publication’s website—which only requires an internet connection and the ability to double-click. I was of sound mind and body, but I knew I’d need to be no more than 4 feet from a bathroom all day, and it made no sense to come in and stink up the office space when I could do bad all by my damn self.
I awoke early this morning, prompted by dehydration, nausea, and stomach pain. I fought the urge to roll over and decided to check my email, just to see what, if anything, Massa had to say about my request to work from home.
I found this message in my inbox:
Sojourner,
Sorry you are still sick. If you can make it into the office we could use another pair of eyes looking at the remaining articles. B_____ has gone out of town and I have to rush to write two articles and get them designed and edited by Thursday evening.
Thanks,
Massa
Um, w.t.f?!! I have never once been denied a sick day, and I even offered to work from home—which I fully planned to do! I wasn’t trying to shirk duties, but I couldn’t keep my butt in check long enough to sleep through the night, let alone pick cotton on the plantation!!! I assumed this email was not a request, but a demand from a passive-aggressive massa.
So here I am. Writing this post from the plantation.
Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom now.
*******************************************
Okay, I’m back.
You know, sometimes I wish the days of open racism and whippings were still here—at least then I’d know who I was dealing with. I can’t tell if he didn’t believe I was sick, is angry that I’ve taken some time off recently, or is just really in need of my “extra eyes”—I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my red-pen marks on the article drafts wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, and my constant gassiness may induce nausea in my coworkers.
So, here I sit, epitomizing the phrase “hot mess” and wishing I was somewhere else. Add to this the recent comment left on my blog by a fellow blacktress from Down Under, and I just know I need to head for freedom. She wrote:
“You definitely have to come down under. I'm an afro-princess in Brisbane, who came here 7 years ago and never left. There's no place to get your hair did but even if you leave the house with a bird’s nest on your head (which I do, every so often) someone will say, "wow, I wish my hair could do that", the hot dudes are everywhere (I married one) and it’s sun, sand and surf most of the time…I’d absolutely be your friend…”
1. First of all, any woman who refers to herself as an afro-princess is down with Sojo.
2. She even married a hot dude, so clearly I need to get on her program.
3. AND SHE SAYS SHE’LL BE MY FRIEND!!! -- maybe we can braid each other's hair!
I just need to find out how her massa treats her on the plantation. When she’s running to the bathroom so much that they start delivering her mail there, do they still make her come to work? When she offers to complete her tasks from the comfort of her home and her own bathroom, do they ask her to come in anyway cause the massa can’t handle his own deadline-scandals?!
Please pray for a blacktress. I think I may start trippin' on these fools today.
I will call this Reason #248 that I need to go to Australia.
Yesterday, Sojourner was ravaged by stomach illness. With sharp pains and an exploding buttocks (sorry, but you know I tell the TRUTH), I sat in my veal pen—aka cubicle—until about 1pm, when I could no longer take the pain. On my way out of the building, I managed to take the elevator one flight before running off to the nearest bathroom, where I puked like a drunken college student after doing a keg stand.
I had a fever, chills, and was fearful I wouldn’t make it home in one piece. I hopped in a cab home, and laid down for the remainder of the day, waking up only to run to the toilet.
By the day’s end, I showed little signs of improvement, so I sent my massa an email, letting him know I wouldn’t be in the next day (today). In my email, I offered to work from home, seeing as my priority for the next day was to do work on our publication’s website—which only requires an internet connection and the ability to double-click. I was of sound mind and body, but I knew I’d need to be no more than 4 feet from a bathroom all day, and it made no sense to come in and stink up the office space when I could do bad all by my damn self.
I awoke early this morning, prompted by dehydration, nausea, and stomach pain. I fought the urge to roll over and decided to check my email, just to see what, if anything, Massa had to say about my request to work from home.
I found this message in my inbox:
Sojourner,
Sorry you are still sick. If you can make it into the office we could use another pair of eyes looking at the remaining articles. B_____ has gone out of town and I have to rush to write two articles and get them designed and edited by Thursday evening.
Thanks,
Massa
Um, w.t.f?!! I have never once been denied a sick day, and I even offered to work from home—which I fully planned to do! I wasn’t trying to shirk duties, but I couldn’t keep my butt in check long enough to sleep through the night, let alone pick cotton on the plantation!!! I assumed this email was not a request, but a demand from a passive-aggressive massa.
So here I am. Writing this post from the plantation.
Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom now.
*******************************************
Okay, I’m back.
You know, sometimes I wish the days of open racism and whippings were still here—at least then I’d know who I was dealing with. I can’t tell if he didn’t believe I was sick, is angry that I’ve taken some time off recently, or is just really in need of my “extra eyes”—I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my red-pen marks on the article drafts wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, and my constant gassiness may induce nausea in my coworkers.
So, here I sit, epitomizing the phrase “hot mess” and wishing I was somewhere else. Add to this the recent comment left on my blog by a fellow blacktress from Down Under, and I just know I need to head for freedom. She wrote:
“You definitely have to come down under. I'm an afro-princess in Brisbane, who came here 7 years ago and never left. There's no place to get your hair did but even if you leave the house with a bird’s nest on your head (which I do, every so often) someone will say, "wow, I wish my hair could do that", the hot dudes are everywhere (I married one) and it’s sun, sand and surf most of the time…I’d absolutely be your friend…”
1. First of all, any woman who refers to herself as an afro-princess is down with Sojo.
2. She even married a hot dude, so clearly I need to get on her program.
3. AND SHE SAYS SHE’LL BE MY FRIEND!!! -- maybe we can braid each other's hair!
I just need to find out how her massa treats her on the plantation. When she’s running to the bathroom so much that they start delivering her mail there, do they still make her come to work? When she offers to complete her tasks from the comfort of her home and her own bathroom, do they ask her to come in anyway cause the massa can’t handle his own deadline-scandals?!
Please pray for a blacktress. I think I may start trippin' on these fools today.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Chris Rock: Bringer of TRUTH
My life is forever changed. Last night, at Madison Square Garden, I saw Chris Rock perform live.
He is my everything.
His second NYC stop on the “No Apologies” tour, Mr. Rock performed before a packed, diverse crowd—bankers with popped collars, black bourgeoisie, mami’s with jeans painted on their rear, Sojourner and her mother and one of my soul sisters. As I walked in with the masses and surveyed the crowd, my first thought was, “damn, this would be a good place to meet a hottie. Any dude who sprung for Chris Rock tickets must not only be gainfully employed, but also unafraid of the TRUTH.”
After I put my loins on hold (I was with mamadukes, after all—how much game could I kick?), I marveled at how this man could bring in people from all walks of life. True, it’s NYC, but not everything’s gone gentrified. Chris Rock is one of the loudest, fiercest, MOST TRUTHFUL black people in entertainment—even more truthful than Sojourner herself. He goes where many people don’t want to, and as he titled his tour, he’s making NO APOLOGIES.
And he’s a millionaire.
This is what we fought for when we wanted to get free. I believe Chris Rock is what Garvey meant when he talked about THE TALENTED TENTH.
With the election, the Sean Bell verdict, and the general crappiness of our society, I knew Mr. Rock would have no shortage of material. Coming in at just under 2 hours, it was a comedian’s opus, the longest speech I will ever sit through without not only falling asleep, but also being engaged, enlightened, and entertained.
Okay, enough praising my future baby daddy—it’s no surprise Sojo loves Chris. Let me share some of his best nuggets of TRUTH.
On McCain: “How is he gonna make decisions about the future when’s not gonna be here?! I don’t want a president with a bucket list!!!”
On Hilary: “You gonna go to work in the same office your husband got blow jobs? Ain’t no amount of redecorating in the world gonna fix that... ‘Oh, the oval office—we’ve turned that into the rectangle office”
I never even thought of Hilary taking office in that way. I died.
Hilary, cont’d: “If you can’t beat a nigger named Obama in Nebraska, you don’t deserve to be president!! They only sold 4 copies of Thriller in Nebraska—and two of them was returned!”
Obama: “He’s just too cool man, Obama. Is. Cool. And he really thinks he’s gonna win this thing fair and square. He really thinks the votes are gonna speak for themselves...”
Funny cause it’s true and funny cause it’s sad.
General: “What the fuck is a super delegate? They didn’t bring those in 'til a Black man started running and stood a chance. I been watching elections for years and I ain’t never heard of a super delegate til now. Apparently, some white people count as NINE!”
On celebrity: “I gotta do a good show tonight, or else they gonna take my kids—look at Britney. Those boys looked healthy, had no knots upside they heads—but she fucked up those MTV awards and those babies were gone!”
Celebrity, cont’d: “In order for black people to get where they need to be, Flava Flav must be killed. On TV. After Dancing With the Stars. [pause, audience laughs] You think I’m joking? Please, if McCain wanted to beat Obama right now, all he’d have to do is bring Flava Flav on tv.
McCain: Flav, what do you think of global warming?
Flav: Yeah, BOIIIIYYYY!!!!
John McCain. In no way connected to Flava Flav.
(This bit really touched my heart, as you all know my feelings on flava flav. I felt like Chris and I had a mind meld. He, too, wants black people to have nice things.)
On race: “But you notice how quick they take some white kids? Those kids get saved quick—they just rounded up a whole lot of ‘em in Texas....But they’ll let a black kid stay. Look at Bobby and Whitney—Bobbi Kristina can’t get any help. They figure, she's black, things are gonna be tough enough. Look at OJ—they let him have the kids AND he went on tv talking about the tough times being a single dad. OJ, you can’t complain when you killed the mother!!!”
Race cont’d: “Black women hate some interracial dating. They hate seeing a black man with a white woman. But you know why? That’s cause black women don’t want a white man. A Black man will sleep with any ol’ white woman, but black women won’t take some run-of-the-mill white dude. Oh, they'll sleep with the pretty ones, the George Clooneys, Brad Pitts, but not those average dudes.. If you see a black woman with some overweight, George Constanza-looking dude, she is with him for one reason: her credit is fucked up!!!”
On terror: “Okay, I know this may sound all Reverend Wright, but what happened to looking for Bin Laden? I don’t think he’s real. I mean, think about it: a 7-foot-tall Muslim who lives in a cave and makes video tapes. We can’t find him, but he always leaves a tape. This man can find electricity in a cave, but we can’t find him?! Bin Laden and Tupac are sitting somewhere making mix tapes!”
I mean, I could go on, but I won't. You'll have to wait for the tape.
He brings the truth, the whole truth, and he needs to be married to SOJOURNER TRUTH, so help me god!
He is my everything.
His second NYC stop on the “No Apologies” tour, Mr. Rock performed before a packed, diverse crowd—bankers with popped collars, black bourgeoisie, mami’s with jeans painted on their rear, Sojourner and her mother and one of my soul sisters. As I walked in with the masses and surveyed the crowd, my first thought was, “damn, this would be a good place to meet a hottie. Any dude who sprung for Chris Rock tickets must not only be gainfully employed, but also unafraid of the TRUTH.”
After I put my loins on hold (I was with mamadukes, after all—how much game could I kick?), I marveled at how this man could bring in people from all walks of life. True, it’s NYC, but not everything’s gone gentrified. Chris Rock is one of the loudest, fiercest, MOST TRUTHFUL black people in entertainment—even more truthful than Sojourner herself. He goes where many people don’t want to, and as he titled his tour, he’s making NO APOLOGIES.
And he’s a millionaire.
This is what we fought for when we wanted to get free. I believe Chris Rock is what Garvey meant when he talked about THE TALENTED TENTH.
With the election, the Sean Bell verdict, and the general crappiness of our society, I knew Mr. Rock would have no shortage of material. Coming in at just under 2 hours, it was a comedian’s opus, the longest speech I will ever sit through without not only falling asleep, but also being engaged, enlightened, and entertained.
Okay, enough praising my future baby daddy—it’s no surprise Sojo loves Chris. Let me share some of his best nuggets of TRUTH.
On McCain: “How is he gonna make decisions about the future when’s not gonna be here?! I don’t want a president with a bucket list!!!”
On Hilary: “You gonna go to work in the same office your husband got blow jobs? Ain’t no amount of redecorating in the world gonna fix that... ‘Oh, the oval office—we’ve turned that into the rectangle office”
I never even thought of Hilary taking office in that way. I died.
Hilary, cont’d: “If you can’t beat a nigger named Obama in Nebraska, you don’t deserve to be president!! They only sold 4 copies of Thriller in Nebraska—and two of them was returned!”
Obama: “He’s just too cool man, Obama. Is. Cool. And he really thinks he’s gonna win this thing fair and square. He really thinks the votes are gonna speak for themselves...”
Funny cause it’s true and funny cause it’s sad.
General: “What the fuck is a super delegate? They didn’t bring those in 'til a Black man started running and stood a chance. I been watching elections for years and I ain’t never heard of a super delegate til now. Apparently, some white people count as NINE!”
On celebrity: “I gotta do a good show tonight, or else they gonna take my kids—look at Britney. Those boys looked healthy, had no knots upside they heads—but she fucked up those MTV awards and those babies were gone!”
Celebrity, cont’d: “In order for black people to get where they need to be, Flava Flav must be killed. On TV. After Dancing With the Stars. [pause, audience laughs] You think I’m joking? Please, if McCain wanted to beat Obama right now, all he’d have to do is bring Flava Flav on tv.
McCain: Flav, what do you think of global warming?
Flav: Yeah, BOIIIIYYYY!!!!
John McCain. In no way connected to Flava Flav.
(This bit really touched my heart, as you all know my feelings on flava flav. I felt like Chris and I had a mind meld. He, too, wants black people to have nice things.)
On race: “But you notice how quick they take some white kids? Those kids get saved quick—they just rounded up a whole lot of ‘em in Texas....But they’ll let a black kid stay. Look at Bobby and Whitney—Bobbi Kristina can’t get any help. They figure, she's black, things are gonna be tough enough. Look at OJ—they let him have the kids AND he went on tv talking about the tough times being a single dad. OJ, you can’t complain when you killed the mother!!!”
Race cont’d: “Black women hate some interracial dating. They hate seeing a black man with a white woman. But you know why? That’s cause black women don’t want a white man. A Black man will sleep with any ol’ white woman, but black women won’t take some run-of-the-mill white dude. Oh, they'll sleep with the pretty ones, the George Clooneys, Brad Pitts, but not those average dudes.. If you see a black woman with some overweight, George Constanza-looking dude, she is with him for one reason: her credit is fucked up!!!”
On terror: “Okay, I know this may sound all Reverend Wright, but what happened to looking for Bin Laden? I don’t think he’s real. I mean, think about it: a 7-foot-tall Muslim who lives in a cave and makes video tapes. We can’t find him, but he always leaves a tape. This man can find electricity in a cave, but we can’t find him?! Bin Laden and Tupac are sitting somewhere making mix tapes!”
I mean, I could go on, but I won't. You'll have to wait for the tape.
He brings the truth, the whole truth, and he needs to be married to SOJOURNER TRUTH, so help me god!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted
I am on a search for Bindi Irwin.
As I work to warm up mamadukes to the idea of Australia and convince my bros and hos that I’m not making a foolish move for a guy, I’ve been answering a lot of questions for myself. Yesterday, while procrastinating on the plantation via g-chat, I spoke with one soul sister from another mister, who urged me to leave this hemisphere. Our convo went something like this:
L: You could hang out with Bindi. That could be fun.
Me: Po’ Bindi—she’s had to grow up so fast.
L: I like how the family didn’t miss a beat.
Dad’s dead.
I got my own show.
I rap about reptiles.
She’s a G.
I mean, if that’s not the Sojourner Truth, I don’t know what is! Bindi is gangsta to the maxxxxxx! I mean, check out homegirl on the Today Show rapping Trouble in the Jungle. She was just like, “Having a dead daddy doesn’t mean I can’t dance!” Homegirl is my new (Australian) idol—I think she may be a young strong black woman in the making.
I must go to her and fortify myself.
This is my plan: I will go down under and comb the continent for the tiny Caucasian imp, focusing my search around animal sanctuaries and stagnant lakes where reptiles make their home. I will brush up on my dance moves and wear only khaki-colored ensembles, in hopes that she will hire me as a b(l)ack-up dancer. Following such great back-up dancers as K-Fed and J-Lo’s ex (what was his name?), I will work my way into Bindi’s inner circle, becoming a fixture at her side during all major promotional appearances. I will turn her pigtails into cornrows and soon people will wonder where her mother went.
The mother will be silenced.
Bindi and I will sharpen her rap skills (baby’s kinda a hot mess, as you can see in the clip above), and we will record a duet—the follow-up to “Trouble in the Jungle,” it will be a remix of “Jungle Fever,” which plays on her love of animals, our interracial friendship, and the inevitable yellow fever outbreak of 2011. Stevie Wonder will appear in the video.
As I work to warm up mamadukes to the idea of Australia and convince my bros and hos that I’m not making a foolish move for a guy, I’ve been answering a lot of questions for myself. Yesterday, while procrastinating on the plantation via g-chat, I spoke with one soul sister from another mister, who urged me to leave this hemisphere. Our convo went something like this:
L: You could hang out with Bindi. That could be fun.
Me: Po’ Bindi—she’s had to grow up so fast.
L: I like how the family didn’t miss a beat.
Dad’s dead.
I got my own show.
I rap about reptiles.
She’s a G.
I mean, if that’s not the Sojourner Truth, I don’t know what is! Bindi is gangsta to the maxxxxxx! I mean, check out homegirl on the Today Show rapping Trouble in the Jungle. She was just like, “Having a dead daddy doesn’t mean I can’t dance!” Homegirl is my new (Australian) idol—I think she may be a young strong black woman in the making.
I must go to her and fortify myself.
This is my plan: I will go down under and comb the continent for the tiny Caucasian imp, focusing my search around animal sanctuaries and stagnant lakes where reptiles make their home. I will brush up on my dance moves and wear only khaki-colored ensembles, in hopes that she will hire me as a b(l)ack-up dancer. Following such great back-up dancers as K-Fed and J-Lo’s ex (what was his name?), I will work my way into Bindi’s inner circle, becoming a fixture at her side during all major promotional appearances. I will turn her pigtails into cornrows and soon people will wonder where her mother went.
The mother will be silenced.
Bindi and I will sharpen her rap skills (baby’s kinda a hot mess, as you can see in the clip above), and we will record a duet—the follow-up to “Trouble in the Jungle,” it will be a remix of “Jungle Fever,” which plays on her love of animals, our interracial friendship, and the inevitable yellow fever outbreak of 2011. Stevie Wonder will appear in the video.
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