Blackpacker Diaries: Bend it Like Barker

Tuesday Night, 10 March 2009

I got my Arj Barker tickets, which is quite exciting. For those of you who aren’t obsessed with Flight of the Conchords, Arj plays their friend Dave, who constantly gives them bad advice and has the best deadpan ever. I hadn’t heard of him before FOTC, but I am so into him. He’s also all over the Australian scene, and every Aussie knows who he is—why hadn’t he made it onto my American comedy radar before now? Oh god--Is he Canadian???
No, not possible.
Clearly I needed to see him in the flesh so I could get some answers.

Unable to get a ticket for Arj with Justin on Sunday, I got one for the Tuesday show. One of the things I like about rolling solo is that I don’t have to check-in before making decisions, or worry about whether or not my companion wants to spend the money for such-and-such activity. It’s also really easy to get last-minute tickets to things when you only need one seat, allowing me to be all free and spontaneous and very “Eat Pray Love” about the whole thing. I ended up in the 8th row, with only 2 people seated next to me. One was a surly teen and the other was obviously his mother. While most people who’d came together were chatting it up pre-show, the three of us sat silently, with the son way too cool to talk to his mom and her way too awkward around her son’s changing body to strike up a conversation. To an outsider we probably looked like a dysfunctional family, with me playing the role of their Sudanese refugee adoptee.

It was a mixed crowd, all ages, and definitely touted as PG. Everyone from teens to 30-somethings were there, and the place was chockers. How do they all know him????? I wondered as the placed filled up. I was excited to see him do more than hilarious one-liners, and also am really into seeing solo shows, so I can take notes and figure out how to write my own one-blacktress show. Arj was hilarious. After being greeted with huge applause, he began.
“Hey guys, I’m gonna start with a riddle. Are you ready?”
More clapping.
“So, how many gold medals do you have to win in order to enjoy a relaxing bong hit at a friend’s house?”

He’s too hilarious. He then went off on Michael Phelps, and had the crowd dying. He also tackled such issues as global warming (“Have you ever wondered if it’s not the Earth’s fault, but the SUN? Maybe it’s just too hot.”), and the African pirates. My favorite line was probably, “OK, maybe I’m crazy, but I’ve always assumed that if something has been turned into a ride at Disney World, and then a movie with Johnny Depp, it is no longer a real-life threat.”



Sweet, sweet, Arj, you make so much sense to me. I can’t wait for us to make hot Afro-Middle-Eastern babies. Can you imagine how hot that’d be? That baby would be on America’s Next Top Model.

I wanted to tell him this after the show, when he was standing outside selling some CDs, but I got scared. I was intimidated by his funny and thought he’d be uninterested in me trying to talk comedy and subtly brainwash him. I should have bought an effin’ CD, which would have totes made him love me, but I had no money-cash-hos on me, so I just scurried away, consoling myself with the knowledge that we’d one day have America’s Next Top Baby.

Tomorrow I start my 6-day/5-night Groovy Grape bus tour that will take me from Adelaide, at the very bottom of South Australia, all the way to Alice Springs, at the bottom of the Northern Territory. We will travel a total of 1,600 kilometers through the red desert, visiting Coober Pedy, the opal capital of the world, Uluru (aka Ayers Rock), one of Australia’s greatest icons, and Kings Canyon and the Olgas. Apparently, I will be sleeping on the ground and expected to hike. I am really excited, but also scared that I’ll be the slow girl, slowing down the crew with my inability to move quickly.

Perhaps I should have invested in hiking boots.

Or, you know, at least developed some stamina at some point in my life.

Okay, I’m off to bed. It's only 10pm, but I think I need to rest up for this.

The Next Installment of The BLACKpacker Diaries

No matter how few comments I receive, or how boring this may be, I will continue to post the chronicles.....

Tuesday 10 March 2009


I booked a wine tour today, cause you know how I roll—good enough for Jesus, good enough for me! The Barossa region makes some of the best wines in the world and it’s only an hour outside of Adelaide, and I knew I wasn’t missing anything in the city center. I absolutely love wine tours, as it connotes early morning drinking and enables you to meet people. The day always starts out awkward, but by 11am, everyone’s slightly buzzed and super chatty. Or, maybe that’s just me, because I never wake up with enough time to eat brekkie, and that blood of Christ goes straight to my head at 9:30.

I booked with Groovy Grape, which was geared toward backpackers, and the same people I was doing my Outback journey with. As usual, I was the only soloist on the tour, so I just sat in the single seat and chatted with the driver, who I loved as soon as he took up the microphone.
“Good morning everybody,” he shouted way too cheerfully, instantly putting me on edge.
Everyone mumbled hellos, and he took the hint, bless him.
“Thanks for joining this Groovy Grape tour,” he said calmly and softly. “My name’s Stuart, and I’ll be your driver. You can call me Stuart, or Stu, I don’t really care—it’s only a day tour.”
He was dry and emotionless, and he was leading me towards wine, which basically made him my favorite human being. We made a stop for coffee, and to see one of Australia’s greatest sights: the giant rocking horse.
I kid you not.
“There’s a famous toy store over here,” Stuart explained, “and because Australians like building big things in the middle of nowhere, we have the rocking horse on our right.”
Australians seriously do like building big things in the middle of nowhere. There’s the giant prawn, the giant banana, a giant bull, and a giant bottle, among others (for the full list of randomly large things, click here). These things are large and random and relatively useless, other than providing tourists with pictures to bore their friends with. For instance:


It weighs 6 tons and is 25 stories high. And it’s a rocking horse. You don’t have to be drinking to love it.
Thank you, Adelaide. Not only do you give me an extra 30 minutes, you give me a reproduction of a childhood icon.

We then headed to wineries, which were loverly. My favorite would have to be Richmond Grove, where we were given a tour of the facilities by Essey, a spunky 40-something woman from San Francisco who I bet totally rocked an ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’ vibe and moved to Australia to nurture her heart and reconnect with the land through grapes and wine. She was hilarious and had great energy, and I totally played the domineering group member who kept adding quips and sassing her. We got along smashingly, and she even let me take a pic with the barrels—holla at a wine-induced bestie! She wanted me to add her to f-book, which I love, but I knew I wouldn’t get internet time for ages, and hoped she would remember me later. Lo and behold, she not only Google-searched blacktress, but she facebooked me and is now a loyal follower!!!

We have a bond that will never die, even when my buzz wears off.

Sojourner, Why Are You Shaking Uncontrollably With Laughter?

Um, this is why, mother. This. Is. Why.





OH MY GOD, I was not ready for the Zach Attack. The attention to detail is amazing. MPG looks sweet as in his stonewashed denim. When he broke out the celly, I almost died.

I have not watched The Jimmy Fallon Show, but now I think Mr. Fallon may be my new favorite person. Is that wrong?

This video has been the highlight of my long Detroit weekend.
I guess that doesn't really say too much, but seriously. How great is it?????!?!?!?!?

Family Matters....Or Does It?

Hey guys, quick Q:
Is it possible to have a Boone's Farm hangover, or could it be I just feel really ashamed of myself?

I write to you now from Detroit, Michigan--aka The City That God Forgot. I'm celebrating the 93rd birthday of my dear grandmother, and couldn't be less annoyed by it.
I know, I know, I'm going to hell.

Hey guys, one more Q: Have you ever shared a bed with someone going through menopause? Well, I have. Cause my uncle's also here, my mom and I are sharing a bed, and home girl is having hot flashes like whoa. So, you know, random thrashing about, turning on and off the fan, and stripping are the course for the night. Hence my bright-and-early bloggery before 10am.

Sunday the whole fam gathered to celebrate, and the awkwardness set in. Although I used to spend every summer in Detroit until I was about 13, I don't feel remotely close to my family at all. Perhaps it's because they teased me for 'talking white' or because my cousin would ask me incredulously how I could 'like a White boy.' Or maybe it's because they teased me for being so dark-skinned and said my toes looked like roaches (they don't). Being an only child, I wasn't used to such teasing and never found it particularly pleasant or manageable. And the fact that these things are still brought up over 10 years later causes me to bristle.

One of my cousins is a year older than me and graduated college about a year ago--which is a hot mess. He actually just self-published a book that would fall under the category of 'urban fiction.' In the first paragraph, we follow our protagonist as he awakes from dreams of being violated by his stepfather. It's hardcore.

Anyway, he'd mellowed out since I'd seen him last, and was talking with his sister about her latest 'man friends.' My cousin says she doesn't have a boyfriend, just 'various dudes I kick it with.' I don't think this means she's bending it like Beckham, though. Her broface got pretty annoyed and made everyone be silent as he imparted the following words of wisdom:

"Men cannot be friends with a woman," he yelled, slamming his can of soda--oops, I mean pop--on the table for emphasis. "If you are not willing to be intimate with a man, you need to leave him alone. Or hook him up with one of your girls who would like to be intimate. If you can't do that, you need to cook him some food. There has to be a physical need met by your presence, or you are useless."
Is he right? What do you think?


I was two seconds away from thinking he was an idiot savant when I heard him offer this next pearl of advice:

"Nah, nah, for real dog--If you need work done in yo' house, you gotta get one of them good, high-functionin' crackheads, who used to be an engineer or some shit. My boy Young Ju got all his Ikea furniture put together by John who live down the street for, like, 20 dollas. And cracky did that shit in about an hour."

Think there's any way I can move up my return flight?

Why I Am Getting Rid of All Online Dating Profiles

Unsolicited IM from Random Dude: Today is a perfect day to make love.
Me: Are you insane?
Random Dude: Why?
I just want to make love.

The Beginning of..... The BLACKpacker Diaries

Sometimes I feel like I’ve barely been gone at all. Like 6 months was barely anything and I have no excuse for being so jarred, drained, or awkward in the NYC-world I was dying to come back to when I was on the road. On the other hand, I am….jarred, drained, and feel like my Asperger’s/awkwardness is flaring up, especially when friends ask me about my trip.

“We have to catch up, I want to hear your stories!” one friend wrote me.
I wrote her back, assuring her there was nothing special. What did I have to say? I just hung out, did some stuff, met some randoms, spent too much time thinking about a gingerbread man, and learned that the world is both huge and miniscule--which I guess I already knew in this age of social networking sites. On the other hand, I now speak in slang that comes from a foreign land, have journeyed into Middle Earth, and jumped off a canyon of my own volition.

I’ve been back from Europe for a week, and finally have to accept that I am back home for the long haul. And I’ve been going out, trying to get myself into the social world that I missed so much, and find I don’t know what to say or where to begin. I know my trip was amazing, but I’m not even sure what to make of it. I want to share it, but am not sure how much anyone really wants to know. So I've decided to tell some stories in the easiest way I know how—via bloggery. For those who wondered where I was those 5 weeks when I was traipsing about on the other side of the world, or why I'm being so weird now, here are pages from the blacktress’ actual diary. It’s the real deal. My thoughts, plans, randomness, issues I thought about each day. It’s raw and uncut—okay, well, cut a little bit—but it’s not neat and tidy, and may not be appropriate for sensitive readers. (Note my NC-17 rating to the right) I will post a new installment each day, in hopes of sharing, entertaining, and clarifying for myself what it was all about. Tuck in, gentle reader, as I begin….

The BLACKpacker Diaries

“I’ve never seen anything like you before. You’re so… black.”
– James from Barrytown, New Zealand

Sunday 8 March 2009

I’m in Adelaide!!! YAY!!

Oh god, who am I kidding? I’m in a city of less than 1 million people, 999,900 of whom seem to be hiding from me, and I keep showing up ½ an hour early for everything (for more on that, check out my first post from Adelaide). On an up-note, I got to hang out with Justin, a friend of mine who was my primary reason for visiting the city.
Well, maybe ‘friend’ is an exaggeration.

I met Justin in a hostel in New Orleans back in ’05, where my fascination with traveling Aussies and their backpacking lifestyle began—although I couldn’t quite understand the desire to travel to such places as West Virginia and Oklahoma when they were from such exotic lands as, um, Staffordshire. I mean, hello—a a shire! Justin was just shy of 21, but with the crazy way Aussies list the date (dd/mm/yy), he was able to pass for 21, and got drunk off his ass the first night I met him in the Big Easy. Most of the night he kept asking me to show him my boobs in exchange for beads, and while I admired his tenacity, I repeatedly declined. Thanks to F-book, we were put back in touch, and knowing so few people in Oz, I reached out to everyone I could when I first landed. Although I’d heard Adelaide was boring and lame, I wanted to get off the beaten path, and figured getting a local’s perspective would give the city a bit more life.

Although I hadn’t seen him in nearly 4 years and barely knew him to begin with, we instantly started chatting and hanging out, and had a nice day, soaking in the great weather. It felt really nice to reconnect with someone, and know that you can spend years apart and have there be no awkwardness. I also sometimes feel that, being on my own so often, my social skills get rusty and I’m not quite sure what’s appropriate. After not talking to anyone face-to-face for a few days, I have a tendency to word-vomit, and then feel a bit guilty, but Justin didn’t seem to mind. He explained that the city appeared post-apocalyptic because it was a holiday weekend and most people were away. Because the Adelaide Fringe Festival was on, we tried to get tickets to a show at the box office in the “Garden of Earthly Delights,” which is a basically a carnival that runs the entire month of the Fringe. They’d set up rides and stalls, and children were running around like Tasmanian devils, hyped up on sugar and delirious from heat stroke. After getting tickets to a random show, we wandered inside the Garden, barely able to move. I was instantly drawn to the tent that touted “Fun Freaks,” such as a bearded lady and a man with flippers, because it’d be like a real-life discovery channel, which you know I heart. Nothing keeps my petty whining in perspective like watching a documentary about someone with a genetic anomaly who learns to live and love, or who gets cured through a nail-biting, grotesque surgery.

Unfortunately, the tent was charging $10, which just seemed ri-goddamn-diculous, no matter how bearded the lady is. Justin also appeared mildly frightened by my enthusiasm, so we just decided to leave. As we waited in a crazy-long line to exit, we had to listen to a man on a bullhorn try to get kids—well, their parents, really—to come into “the Spiegeltent,” where actors put on kiddie shows. He was doing the used-car salesman ramble, speaking so fast that anyone mildly interested would be worn down by his barrage of words and simply pay up. I was trying my best to tune out when he said, clear as crystal:

“Remember kids: If your parents don’t get you a ticket to the Spiegeltent, they don’t love you.”

HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.

Best marketing tool ever. It made me want to have a kid (or, better yet, steal one that was wandering around) and take it inside, just to prove I was capable of love.

Justin and I then headed to the Botanical Gardens, where I tried to hold up my end of the conversation, but literally kept falling asleep during our conversation because I was so knackered from my 8am flight. For some reason, I decided it was a brilliant idea to simply not sleep the night before, seeing as I’d have to get up so early anyway. Justin, ever the summer peach, didn’t seem to mind, and just rambled on. Most of it was a blur, but I do recall a trio of ducks walking around us, and him taking a keen interest in them. “I like those ducks,” he said casually. “They’re very plump and don’t seem scared of people. They’re plump and trusting.”
“Is that how you like your women?” I asked, momentarily roused by his random comment.
“And how.”

I think I’ve found a new back-up husband.

Oh, and as for the show we saw later that night: Couldn't tell you a damn thing about it. I fell asleep after about 5 minutes.

There's No Place Like (Someone Else's) Home

Here's an excerpt of a conversation I had with my mother on Sunday:

Mamadukes: Sojourner, when are you going to stop spending all your time with gay men?
Me: When they stop loving me, mother, when they stop being true. That's when.

She thinks that this is the main reason I am single. What she fails to realize is that for the first time in a rather long time, I could care less. I'm not a 'fag hag', but a Future Gay Icon, making my way through the gay ranks until I'm a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race, so fierce in my performance that they let me compete even though I have lady parts.

I started to form this master plan over the weekend, and it all came together on Monday evening.

Friday night I met up with a great gay pal who was visiting from Australia, and spent the evening club hopping in the West Village and Hell's Kitchen. The highlight of the night had to be Peaces, a gay club in the West Village, where we met a bevy of boys. My favorite would have to be a man named--no joke--Robert Christmas, who stuck his finger down my butt crack and his gin-and-tonic straw in my cleavage before giving me his business card and saying, "you know you wanna facebook me." The man is a Christmas miracle.

See, it's that kind of straight-forward, no-bullshit tactic that the hetero males need to be taking if they want a shot with the blacktress--well, except for the ass-finger and straw-cleavage moves.

After an excellent night, I came home only slightly buzzed, as I didn't have to drown my sorrows of being surrounded by d-bag heteros with way too many vodka-sodas. I then was able to awake bright and early on Saturday and have lunch with two of my favorite boys, a couple that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out. They invited me to a fellow friend's graduation party for Monday night, and I said, "Evite be damned, I'm coming!"

I woke up Monday with a heap of errands and to get myself in a can-do mood, I put on an outfit inspired by Joan Holloway from Mad Men (my latest addiction. I am obsessed with repressed White folks, high-waisted skirts, and 1960s social conventions). As I walked through midtown running errands, I noticed that a bevy of banker types were lightly eye-fucking me--I guess the sexy secretary vibe was working for me. Thank you, Joan!

However, it wasn't until I arrived at the graduation party that evening that I was truly the belle of the ball. Surrounded by professional gay couples, drinking white wine, I remembered why I feel most at home in moments like these--it's because when I'm with the gays, I'm the prettiest girl in the room! I met the graduate's parents, who had come from Witchita, Kansas, to celebrate their son and his boyfriend. As I took mom's camera and played paparazzi, I got to meet everyone and learned that Kansas is a hotbed of gay activity. How great is that?! My favorite people had to be the 18-year-olds who just moved to New York City together and are in a realationship! In their gray slacks and pastel button-downs (the gay uniform for events), they were just the cutest ever! I am kind of obsessed with their young gay love, and offered to buy them booze whenever the need arises--you know how I love to enable addictions.

As the party wound down, I chatted with the parental units, and they thanked me for taking pics, and then told me how pretty I was. "Where's your boyfriend, sweetie?" Mom asked me tenderly.
"Oh, he's right there," I said, pointing to one of my friends across the room. "And there. there. Oh, and there's another one there," as I pointed at various homosexual gentlemen. I then asked if I should move to Kansas to find a strapping lad who could handle a blacktress. Mom said yes, and next thing you know, she's taking down my blog address and wondering where she can see me do stand up.

I am now, like Dorothy, on a quest to return home to the plains of Kansas. Or, better yet, I am Diana Ross in "The Wiz." I am done with Munchkins and the lollipop guild. I will no longer be fooled by the little man behind the big curtain. I am ready to ease on down, ease on down the road.
Before I go, let me go ask one of my gays for a pair of sparkly red Mary Janes--teehee.