When the Jewboo's Away......

The Blacktress will find another jewboo!!

J/K. You know I only have one trueJew love. But Jewboo’s currently in Boston doing some shows, and I must admit, I don’t mind it one bit. I haven’t had to shave my legs in 4 days (yep, I said it), I haven’t had to gchat stalk him for my own amusement during the workday (largely because he’s not available), and, although the hotel they’re staying in is right between a Hooters and Fuddruckers, his vegetarianism is sure to keep him away from both hot wings and pretty young things.

I kicked off my first night of freedom by seeing a Comedy Central taping for comedian Nick Kroll last night. I don’t really have celebrity crushes, and I don’t really like to gush, but Nick Kroll is seriously my life partner. He’s a nerdy Jew from Rye, New York who has the pouty lips of a man of color and every word out of his mouth is brilliant to me. He mostly plays characters, my favorite being Fabrice Fabrice—the name so nice, you have to say it AGAIN.

Check him out interviewing Steve Carrell:

Fabrice Fabrice Interviews Steve Carell from Steve Carell

He is my spirit animal. He is my avatar. He is my patronus. And after sitting second row center during his taping my life is officially complete. Let me explain.


First and firstmost (as Bobby Bottleservice would say), Nick Kroll has been on my TO-DO list ever since I saw him at UCB 4 years ago. He was so wonderfully hilarious, and his questionable sexuality intrigued me. I figured at the very least, every gay needs a blacktress, and I could endear myself to him. Unfortunately, he was way too cool off stage for me to approach, so I just let it be. Since then, however, Kroll has blown up like Nagasaki, starring in “The League,” “Sit Down Shut Up,” and random movie cameos. When I saw he was doing a show at the Williamsburg Music Hall, I jumped on those tickets—hipsters be damned!

I bought 4, figuring I’d make some friends at some point prior to the show. Enjoying freedom without Jewboo I made it a ladies’ night, and brought three of my favorite funny girls (well, 2 of my favorites and a random who wanted a ticket). I arrived with a friend and there was no sign or sense of order to the process. “What do we do?” my Caucasian friend asked? I looked around. Manning the door were too buff black bodyguards.
“I see black men. I’m getting some answers,” I said.
I walked over to the bald guy (they always have the most power), and asked him what the deal was. As he spoke, his gold grill nearly blinded me, but I stood my ground, speaking with a confidence and comfort that let him know I was cool, but not trashy. He gestured for us to wait on this side, and we did accordingly. The people around us began lining up behind us; we’d inadvertently started the line and were at the front (Rosa would have been so proud!). We ended up getting 2nd row center seats, perfect for eye-fucking.

On select seats was a sheet of paper and pencil, and we were directed to write down questions for Fabrice Fabrice. “Good” questions would be selected and given to Fabrice to read on stage/on camera.

This was my moment to connect with him. I thought long and hard. Here’s what I came up with:
1. What was Raven Simone’s favorite meal on the set of “The Cheetah Girls”?
2. How did you discover that craft services was your passion?
3. How do you like to unwind after a long day of serving crafts?
xoxo, Blacktress!!!

I didn’t think he’d read it, but I wanted to just add a personal touch.

After our questions were collected and reviewed, Fabrice was handed a stack to read. I tried not to get too amped—and then hateful—when my friend’s questions were answered. But then……
“What was Raven’s favorite meal on the Cheetah girls? Cheetahs. Baby cheetahs.”
YES!!!! He got me.
He proceeded to answer the rest of them, and then read my signature aloud:

“XOXO, Blacktress. That’s a black actress. This woman is black and she’s hating on Raven. That’s not solidarity.”
(everything sounds hilarious in the voice of Fabrice Fabrice, trust).

Um, it was the greatest moment of my life. Nick Kroll uttered my alias with his full lips. He instantly knew what the word meant—he can certainly handle the truth. And the fact that my questions were chosen proves that we’re cosmically connected—I know what to ask him to make him shine like Geoffrey Rush.

So, in summararium, Nick is my boo, I am famous by proxy, and I love me a matzoh ball!

I totally wish I was Henry Winkler right now.

Getting off Struggle Strasse

You know how they say it’s hard out there for a pimp? Well, I think it’s much harder for a blacktress (didn’t the pimp get an Oscar nom?). Y’all, I am on Struggle Street, for serious. I mean, we all know struggle street (or, as I like to call it, struggle strasse to really highlight the pain)—how it feels when you’re swamped at work one week, when you’re getting rejected like a Jersey Shore cast member’s college application, when you wake up with no heat or hot water and don’t know what to do.

But normally, you get through it. It’s just one of life’s many valleys, and you know there’ll be another peak. In those moments, you’re just walking down Struggle Strasse—you know, you took a wrong turn, but you know that once you get your bearings you’ll be back on Make It Happen Boulevard.

Sometimes, though, it’s not so simple. Sometimes you end up on Struggle Strasse and get wooed by its cheap rent. You’re so hopeless you end up signing a damn lease and the next thing you know, it’s the middle of summer and you find out the windows in your apartment in the Struggle Strasse Projects can’t open, much less support an air conditioner.

That’s where I’m at right now. Nothing tragic happened—I just sorta let this malaise snowball, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m even young, gifted, or black! (did you see one of the recent angry comments? I’m a discredit to the race!) I had a few shows happening, but I’m running out of new material—and not really writing more!!! What kind of roll-over-and-play-dead kind of behavior is this?! Definitely more wacktress than blacktress.

I think it really has to do with not liking my job, and not really knowing what alternatives I have—you know, probably the way an oppressed person feels almost everyday. I’m not accustomed to this. As mamadukes says to me when I’m acting a fool, “I didn’t work hard so you could cry all day.” That, and “if you want sympathy, you can find it between ‘shit’ and ‘syphillis’ in the dictionary.”

It’s tough love, but it works.

I don’t know what to do people! I’m trying to write funny hilarities to pitch to humor sites, and my brain turns to mush! What’s hip with the young kids? Is Bieber still hot? Why have I missed so many episodes of GLEE? This is what happens when you spend your evenings hunched over Edy’s Slow Churned Ice Cream (it doesn’t matter if it’s half the fat when you eat twice as much of it!).

All right, y’all, I’ll stop the rant. Just tell me what to do. Please leave a comment that answers the following:

1. Sojourner, the TRUTH is you should be spending your time doing ________ for a living.

2. Blackting is…..
a. Reacting
b. Attacking
c. Distracting
d. Comparing yourself to other people and wondering if the world still thinks you’re 3/5 of a woman.

3. When your drag queen boss tells you that your tone “concerns him,” you should
a. Calmly explain your point of view.
b. Send a clarifying email, so as not to give away your hatred via eye rolling and sighing. Then, look for a new job on monster.com.
c. Start looking into working holiday visas and see if New Zealand will let you back in.
d. Cut a bitch.

You're Welcome....

Happy Friday, y'all!!

Young, Gifted, and BACK

Guys, I come to you now with my tail between my legs and my head hung in shame. I haven’t blogged in so long, you’d think I wasn’t an insecure narcissist whose primary form of procrastination was writing ramblings on the internet.

Since I last posted, there have been many changes afoot—I don’t even know where to begin!

1. On Friday, October 29th at 6:34pm, Jewboo called to tell me he GOT A JOB!!!
Yes, y’all!!! He’s got a sweet temp-to-perm gig at Columbia University! For those of you who don’t know, Columbia’s located in Harlem, which means that not only has Jewboo solved the “I’m broke-ass” problem, he’s also helped alleviate the “I love on the G train” issue! Other pluses to this new employment:
- Jewboo’s entire staff consists of strong black women and a black man named Junior. Our 8 months of dating have trained him perfectly for dealing with a strong black woman—and, should his superiors be prone to outbursts and mood swings, he will be able to respond by asking them if they are in “food distress.”
- When the gig goes permanent, Jewboo will be making 25% MORE THAN ME. Seriously. As an administrative assistant. It really makes me wish I hadn’t gone into debt going to a liberal arts university when managing an Outlook calendar is where the money is.
- With this newfound money, Jewboo can begin purchasing me foodstuffs of the baked variety. I’m ‘bout to get myself mad cupcakes, y’all!
- My mother can stop telling me that I need to “use this one as a back-up; don’t get attached.”

2. So, for Halloween, I decided to go as “slutty Condoleeza Rice,” complete with cheap corset purchased from H&M and a headband with a top hat. I was definitely a tramp, but luckily, my party of choice was a bunch of gays in a high school gymnasium in Chelsea. It was kind of amazing. The drag queens brought out their A game, and they actually taught me how to—

UGH, God, my fucking coworker keeps interrupting me, and I can’t get a blog in edgewise! He’s being such a fucking shunt*, and I having been wanting to cut him for days. My hatred has gotten so intense that Saturday night I dreamt we got into a fist fight. I wish he’d just never talk to me again—or only communicate with me via email. He’s just so damn….detail-oriented and “wanting to get your thoughts on” things that it just bothers the shit out of me. I swear to fucking god, I can’t handle being here.
*that’s Australian for “shitty cunt”

Okay, rant complete. Where was I?
Oh, right, HallowQUEEN. (How did I just start calling it this now???)
So, I’m dancing to remixed versions of every pop song I’ve ever known (when you speed up “Umbrella,” Rihanna sounds even more like a chipmunk than usual), in my trampy outfit, hanging out with two members of my BLONDtourage (white girls are excellent safety nets on nights when the crazies are out), when a guy crosses behind us to put is coat in a corner.

I freeze. My stomach twists in a figure-eight knot.
No, it isn’t one of the many former lovers I’ve had.
It was MY BOSS!!!

Yes, y’all! My boss was at the HallowQueen party, and decided to plant 4 centimenters from a blacktress! I immediately alerted the blondes and made sure to text my nearest and dearest. Jewboo’s response: “Isn’t yer boss a drag queen?” as though I shouldn’t have been at all surprised. One of the gals I was with was convinced he must have seen me, since he’d crossed several times to drop off his coat, go back to pull out his wallet and phone, and then go back to put something else in his pocket.

“Do you think he’d recognize me in this outfit?!”
I tried to continue dancing non-chalantly, but the night lost its luster. I wasn’t ready to be caught out dressed like a tramp by the man who signs my checks. I walked over to my bag to put my cell away when he turned towards me. I used my collapsible fan as a face shield (just like Condi would do), but it was a wrap.

Michael just looked at me, rolled his eyes and laughed, and said, “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

I swear, I’m only having former drag queens as bosses from now on.



Okay, there’s much more to report, but I gotta get back to work before the shunt comes over with another request. I’m glad I broke the block, y’all—how you been?

Unable to MoveOn.org

So I know I’ve been way behind on bloggery, and I have much to catch you up on, but I forgot to post a little tidbit from “Sad Girl” (remember her from that time I went to 8th grade prom?). She’s since graduated high school and is living on her own. Adult life hasn’t been so good to her. It seems, you can take Sad Girl out of high school, but you can’t take the….sadness out of the sad girl.


I don’t know if you guys know about this, but I’ve been going through a really hard time lately. Work is a total bitch, and my former drag queen of a boss (that’s not meant to be derogatory, that’s just a fact) keeps telling me that I’m “sick and suffering.” Yesterday, the online editor got pissed at me because I finally told her why I don’t like her (she doesn’t respect my dominance). And Halloween’s coming up, and I have no idea what to be (a slutty fireman? A slutty bunny? Muslim film star Delta Burqa?).

Not that I have anywhere to go anyway. No one invites me out anymore, and it sucks. I got Netflix a few months ago to help quell the ache, but even movies have gotten boring.

I check my email every 5 minutes, hoping for an Evite to som—

Oh my god, guess what?! I just got an email from a guy named Chuck S. It’s titled “Come to my party in New York on Saturday?”

I LIVE IN NEW YORK! Chuck knows that, I’m sure, or he wouldn’t have invited me. I don’t know who he is off the top of my head, but I’m sure we met somewhere a year or so back, when I used to be social.

Ugh, thank god. I was freaking out over not having plans. Okay, now I’ll go to Ricky’s and get a costume. I wonder if anyone hot will be there. Maybe Chuck’s hot. Should I bring candy? Let me open the email and see the deets.

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?

Hi,

We're just 5 days from the election, and dozens of races could come down to just a handful of votes. We could end up with narrow Democratic wins in a ton of close races, or a Republican takeover of our government, and it all comes comes down to which side has more volunteers getting out the vote.

I'm not going to let right-wing Republicans take over Congress.

So I'm hosting an election call party on Saturday in New York. I'm inviting people over to make calls to sign up volunteers for our candidates.

I can't do it alone. So if you've got a couple hours to spare this weekend—or even if you don't!--please, please, please come to my party. It's up to all of us in the next 5 days.

Why doesn’t anyone ever invite me anywhere fun?

Apparently, He No Longer Has a Hold on Anyone

Y'all, I got another rando press release today at work. The subject line was cut off, but what I could see read "SMOKEY ROBINSON MEDIA BLITZ S---"

What?! Smokey Robinson? Homey's still alive and blitzing it up?! I obviously double-clicked on that shizz post haste.

Apparently, Smokey has a new album out, y'all. It's called "Now and Then." This is exciting--the man's a legend, and he's still got it! I was ready to call up my mom and tell her the good news when I read the introduction. Tell me what's wrong with this paragraph, y'all (it has not in any way been altered):

Nashville, TN – Legendary hit-maker Smokey Robinson will commence a media flurry, visiting national media in Nashville and New York to promote his highly anticipated album, Now and Then, which hits Cracker Barrel Old Country Store locations on November 1st.

In addition, Smokey will tape segments for The Weather Channel, Fox Entertainment feed, LXNY, NYC Profiles, ABC Nightline, and Hannity.

Cracker Barrel?! They selling Smokey's albums in Cracker Muthafuckin' Barrel Old Country Stores?! Y'all, this is the man who brought us such mega hits as “Shop Around,” “Tracks of My Tears,” and “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me.” He is a living legend--and they can't even put his ish on Amazon?!


Smokey is too good for CRACKER BARREL! I call that restaurant "Barrel of Crackers," cause when I stopped at one by the roadside, I didn't see a black person anywhere. In fact, every person in the place turned and looked at us, which I know took a lot of work, because most of them didn't have necks.

And what's this "Weather Channel" foolishness? What about VH1 or BET?! And Hannity?! WTF?! Y'all, I can't cope with this foolishness. Smokey needs to get some new representation, stat.


Don't worry, Smokey--you still got a hold on Sojo!

Remembrance of Things Past

OMG, guys. I’m really happy now. I got an email from my gyno!!!

Yes, guys, an e-mail! An e-mail is good because it means your test results came back negative. I remind myself of this with a little rhyme: If you didn’t fail, you get an email; If your phone rings, it doesn’t bring good things!

You know you’ve lived a little too hard if you’re really amped over STD test results. I’m not mathemagician, but I’d venture to say that one’s excitement over negative STD tests is directly proportional to one’s past sluttery. And, as many of you long-time readers can attest, Sojourner has definitely taken advantage of her freedom—and the legalization of miscegenation. As a hypochondriac, I get tested very regularly (sometimes I go in for a prescription refill and come out with two vials of blood drawn, just for the fun of it!), and the idea of an un-wrapped P in my V actually terrifies me, so my past, while varied, is relatively tidy.

Still, there were those nights….those Grease-like summer nights, when the club was dark and the booze was strong, and you didn’t know if that guy was on the up-and-up, but you hoped the amount of alcohol in your blood was so high that it would kill any foreign antibodies that entered.

Am I right, guys?


Anyway, I figure I just bought another 18 months of calm, especially now that I’m Jewboo’ed up and behaving.

Speaking of sluttery, I’m thinking of doing a trashy Halloween costume this year. I’m not really one for costumes (as a blacktress, I perpetually wear a mask….oooohh, that’s deep), and the idea of spending a lot of money or investing several hours in crafting a costume for one night of wear just seems silly. Besides, all the costumes for women are a slutty version of something really generic—you know, like a slutty fireman, a slutty witch, or a slutty slut.

I think, in honor of the slutty idiocy that is Halloween, my costume will be A Girl With Low-Self Esteem.

Booty shorts and/or booty skirt, the tiniest top you can imagine, and the need for endless male attention all night long.

I may end up having flashbacks.

Or, if I want to seem slutty-yet-cool, I’m thinking I can dress up as a Freudian Slip.

You know, wear a slip with my glasses and a name tag that says “Hello My Name is FREUD.”

What say you?