I've Reached Down Under!!!!!

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 13/10/2008. 

I am writing to you from the future.

Saturday, October 11, 2008, at 10:00 pm, I boarded Quantas Flight 74 to Sydney, Australia. 

I arrive this morning--Monday, October 13, 2008-- at 8:00 am. 

I don't even know what's happening. 

I write to you from the main office of the IEP Program that's helping me make this all happen. I can barely lift my shoulders from carrying over 140 pounds of luggage, but enjoyed the hostel shower far more than I expected to. I'm in a 4-person room, and so far, the only person I've met is a Dutch hippie named Sonya who had dreadlocks and an open heart. She lent me her nail scissors so I could open the plastic that kept me from reaching my padlock.

So, I already managed to lose my IEP program files--luckily I had copies made and hidden in another folder. The Australian SIM card I purchased is not hooking up to my Nokia as planned, and I'm hungry, but unsure of what to eat. But I'm feeling oddly relaxed--perhaps it's because I didn't sleep on the 15-hour flight, and am in a state of delirium. 

I initially had a whole row to myself and thought things were looking up until the flight attendant told me some old broad across the aisle was going to sit in my row, because she'd just had foot surgery. I thought maybe she'd forget, but as soon as that fasten-seat-belt sign went off, she came right over. She quickly removed her boot and put her old-lady foot up on the seat between us.  I tried to make the most of it, and watched Iron Man, Get Smart, and even Arj Barker stand up performance. I even managed to drown out the TWO crying babies sitting parallel to me. After all, it's all in your outlook, you know?

The granny went to sleep for most of the flight, but when she awoke, she wanted to talk to me about the election. Turns out she's a geriatric playa supporting Obama (holla!) and proceeded to tell me about an organization she's a part of that is "all about peace." 

"Are you about peace?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," I said, as though she'd caught me brandishing a firearm and I was caught sheepishly.

"Well, so are we. We go to the conventions, go to DC, make sure maintaining and promoting peace stays on people's minds!" 

She then proceeded to sing me a song she and her group had made up about Sarah Palin. 

If I wasn't so loopy right now, I'd be able to remember it. 

She also told me the name of her organization--and was also very careful to tell me to add the word "Alert" when I was searching for it, or else I'd be brought to a porn site.

"Oh no!" I said, pretending to care.

"Well, it's not so bad, depending on what you like," she said matter-of-factly.

So true, granny--so true. 

Please note, guys: This is the beginning of the blacktress's blog down under. If you don't see a post at least every 4 days, call the authorities--lord knows what could have happened to me down here all alone with no one to care about my whereabouts.

Overheard In San Francisco

I'm moments away from heading to the SF International Airport, and had the pleasure of having my final American meal with my life partner/wifey. As we walked back to fetch my baggage, we overheard two fabulous gay men chatting in the Castro.

Guy 1 (matter-of-factly): Just text him and say "What is your penis doing tonight? Does it want to be inside of me?"

Naturally, my gut reaction was to fall to one knee and propose to this man. Unfortunately, I have a flight to catch and a long-distance marriage to a homosexual is just more baggage that qantas surely wouldn't let me have on board.


Okay, gang, that's all for now. The next time I write you, it will be from Sydney, Australia--14 hours head of NYC. I'll be writing from....THE FUTURE.

Wish me luck-- I don't want to end up re-enacting scenes from LOST.

My Baggage: INXS

Greetings from California, gang!
I got in yesterday, and boy are my arms tired!
(Has that joke ever been funny?)

Traveling is always jarring to me, especially when there's a time difference involved. I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn and my mom and I headed to JFK for me to catch my flight to SFO. Seeing as this is a stop on the way to Oz, I had two huge bags to check. I was worried about the weight limits, but thought that since I was only packing my cutest outfits, there was no way I could have more than 70 pounds in my bag. You can imagine my surprise when my spring/summer bag was placed on the scale and came in at 82.5 pounds!

Luckily, the lady at the check-in desk was feeling generous. The name on her tag read "Glo," and she kept calling me "Darling" and "Sweetheart." As my mother and I lamented the $100 fee, Glo covertly whispered, "Oh, just go ahead," all full of tenderness!

Upon arrival in SF, I was lucky enough to have my friend the Elite Gay Visionary pick me up in his ride. As we maneuvered my bags, we realized the first stop would have to be finding a third suitcase. Luckily, my former freshman year roommate came to fetch me and we roamed the streets in search of a duffel/sports bag.

NO LUCK.
As we climbed up treacherous hills, I started to freak out about this whole thing. Why am I going to Australia? I can't even pack properly! I'm certainly not cut out for a nomadic, backpacking, hippie lifestyle. As I started to feel tears well up (seriously), I realized that I had way more emotional baggage than clothing!

Would Qantas airlines refuse to let me on because my emotional baggage was too much? Would I tip the plane in unsavory directions with my worrying and freaking out?

Then, the following Australian tourism ad was brought to my attention last night.



I mean, racist leanings aside (what is with the barefoot Aboriginal youth coming to the confused white lady and showing her the way?), I guess I could find a boost from this ad. Perhaps I, too, will push my madness aside and jump into clear waters that got Nicole Kidman pregnant.

As I wait for my third bag to arrive, I shake off the annoyance of having to pay extra, and fight the urge to curse out Qantas representatives (how can I move to a foreign land for a year and NOT bring everything but the kitchen sink?!), and remember that soon I, too, will be finding myself through the help of a native.

For more on that cray cray commercial, check this out.

In Harry's Defense

Look at this comment I got on the HP post:

Andr said...

If you really saw the play you know the theatre is very cold, there is cold smoke on stage and thousand of people looking at him and he is averange, so imagine when there is a normal temperature and a normal situation: it's big, very big guys, deal with it, you have it smaller than Radcliffe.
And calling him Harry is not funny, it's lame. It only shows you are immature and retard.
The boy has talent and is brilliant in the play, deal with that too.


Do you think this is Harry? This person is angry! I'm a "retard"! This blows my mind.
I love it.
What does it mean to "have it smaller than radcliffe"? Is he saying my penis is smaller than his? if so, he is RIGHT!
Cause I don't have a penis.
And, if that's what we're discussing here, then yes, Harry has one-upped me.
Who knew this post would be so divisive?!

I Can't Let This Go

I was alerted to candid photos of J-Hud and Punk (I'm only calling him by his reality show name) by a friend, who shall remain nameless. Unfortunately, J-Hud will not remain SHAMEless.
Look at these fools.



How did this photo get leaked? Are they playing dress up? What are they trying to convey with this imagery?

Jennifer's looking like she's ready to punch anyone who talks shit about her reality-tv man. Should I take this as a challenge? I love how she's already taken on her man's style, like one of those girls who loses are personality once they get a boo. She really has let me down--it's like she only became famous so she could become a tragedy.

The Tale of a Boy and His Horse

I saw him, guys.
I saw Harry Potter live and in the flesh last night.

From row B in the orchestra, the boy who lived was practically in my lap. Here's the breakdown:

For those of you who don't know, Equus is a straight play written by Peter Shaffer in 1973, based on a true story of a young boy who blinded six horses--well, the incident itself is true, but Shaffer went on to create a portrait of a young person who would do such a thing. Told through the narration of the boy's psychiatrist, we jump back and forth through time as we piece together what could drive him to be so cray.

HP is the first onstage, and he is SHIRTLESS. I knew this was going to be good--although I was already in hopes when, before the lights dimmed, my mother leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, "We're gonna see Daniel Radcliffe's balls."

I've never head my mom say "balls." This is what bonding is all about.

Anyway, the first thing I noticed were the crazy connections between Equus and the HP story.
1. The psychiatrist is played by Richard Griffiths--the very actor who plays UNCLE VERNON in the HP films!!! OH EM GEE!
2. With HP's nudity being a major selling point, his wand is just as vital in the stories as it is in this play.
3. At one point in the play, Alan Strang (HP's character) is reliving the moment leading up to his terrifying act, and he says, "He was in the way!"
"Who?" says Uncle Vernon.
"You know who!!!!" Alan screams.
Um, if that's not Voldemort, I don't know who is.

The character of Alan Strang is a troubled boy with a sexual fascination/love for horses. In the play, 6 male actors who wear large metal horse heads represent the creatures. When Alan is with a horse, he strokes their chest and rubs his hands all over their body, which in turn gave the blacktress a sexual eruption! Note to self: be willing to play a non-speaking role in a Broadway show, on the off chance that it will entail being stroked by Daniel Radcliffe.

When he remembers a moment of riding a horse, Harry/Alan is orgasmic as the animal gallops. He speaks aloud to the therapist, describing the feeling of preparing the animal for a ride.
"No saddle?" the therapist notes.
"Never," Harry answers seductively.
Holla! HP likes to ride bareback!

From my close vantage point, I can tell you that Harry is quite petite, probably 5'6" tops, and is built like a soccer player--strong, compact legs and a little torso. GOD, this is so frustrating!! How are we supposed to have a mixie master race if he's going to be height deficient?!

He also had facial hair--a sort of chin strap that did not do him justice. I can't really handle his attempt at aging. Being the Brit that he is, he is obvi pasty pale (all parts of him, my friends), I could see a little rash on his upper arm--do you think he's been in communal showers lately?

And, of course, the information you all want:
the peen.

All I can say is this: While Harry was dynamic and mesmerizing on stage, I believe his penis must have had a case of stage fright.

Seriously, it was tiny.
I know the theater was a bit chilly, so my immediate thought was, "Okay, Sojourner, it's just shrinkage. He's freezing. It's okay."
But then, like, as I looked at it more and more, I realized that it was just mini.
And then my heart died a little.
I'm sure any men reading this will be offended and hate me, since penis size is such a sensitive subject. But, like, really, size isn't a make-or-break attribute. However, when you've dreamed of a boy wizard--nay, the BOY WHO LIVED--you want him to LIVE up to your (s)expectations!

After the show, my mother and I were on the train reading our programs. Suddenly she says, "See what good self-esteem men have? That's why women need to stop hating their bodies. Harry did not even need to take off his drawers."

Oooooh, third-degree burn, mom.

But she was kinda right.

Oh Happy Day!!

In T minus 2.5 hours, I will be in the 3rd row orchestra of the Broadway play "Equus."
Or, as I like to call it, "Harry Potter Penis."

I don't think I could be more excited.
Wait, does that make me a pedophile? Don't answer that.

I'm going to see the show with my mother, because she's really into bonding before I leave (one week left--aaaahhh!). However, we usually go see musicals since we love a good spectacle. Although we've been talking about seeing Wicked for ages, I just felt it was behoovy of me to see the nude frame of the only man I'll ever love.

The play is a bit strange and involves horses, bestiality, and psychotherapy. I've already been sent several links to blurry camera-phone pictures of Mr. Potter's magic wand, but they do not do the boy wizard justice.

My mother is a bit put off by my interest in HP's...P. How does it make you feel? I think was gets her the most is that I refuse to call him by his real name. She says, "It's as though you can't separate Daniel Radcliffe from the movie character. They aren't the same."

"Um, YOU'RE not the same, lady!"

Sometimes I'm not very clever.

I'll be sure to provide a detailed synopsis and play by play of...the play--and Harry's um, major prop first thing tomorrow.




OH MY GOD. LOOK AT THAT BANGIN' BOD. I WILL GET TO SEE HIM WITHOUT PANTS.