Mondays With Artists / National Treasure 3: Horses, Flowers, and People

It’s back, guys!!!!

When my mother shamed me into thinking I was a talentless whore (I won't go into it), I ended up taking down my Mondays With Artists posts, but I will no longer hide my light under a bushel! I just got a letter in the mail—complete with Polaroids—that was too good to keep to myself.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have the honor of knowing [An Old Lady Name]. Her gifts deserve worldwide recognition. I think an article on her would be a great human story. Here’s a bit on her life and work. I’d bet you’ll agree she is one very interesting gal.

[Okay, we go from referring to her as an ‘honor to know’ then get all folksy and warm, saying she’s a ‘gal’…I’m not sure what to make of this.]

A treasure, a living, breathing, treasure…how else to describe a woman who has lived a inspiring life for 76 years.
[Because there’s no question mark at the end, I assume this is not up for debate.]

As a youngster, she was clearly out of the box. She resorted to drastic measures to defy a school system that couldn’t respect her gifts, such as putting red dots on her face to feign chicken pox. Her candid portraits of people and horses and flowers are distinctive*.
[* Isn’t that a word you use when something is ugly, but you want to be nice?]

To my mind she is a national treasure, a strong independent, dutiful artist, doing her art of living for anyone lucky enough to know her to witness.

[I don’t know what to make of this last sentence.]

Guys, when I’m old and random and talking about my glory days, will you write to Comedy Central and tell them that I’m a treasure? A living, breathing, national treasure?

If You Prick Me, Do I Not BLOG?

I realized that one of the main reasons my blogging has taken a dip is that, as my readership increases among people who actually know me, there's less room for self-expression. I'm not saying everyone should be able to handle Sojourner's Truths, but if you prick me, do I not bleed (and then blog about it to help heal)?? I've been holding out on you, gentle readers, and it just feels wrong. Here's what you've missed:

1. Two weeks ago I was denied my dream apartment. It was huge, the rent included all utilities and cable/internet, and the guy's youngest daughter is a student at my high school! When I walked in and saw books on Venus Hottentot and "Race and Gender in Post-Colonial America," I knew this potential landlord could handle my truth. He told me about his trans-racial adopted daughter (look it up, it's a term), and also said that she was interested in attending my alma mater, Diversity University. So when he ignored my emails for a week, I was shocked and dismayed--the man was a professor of Divinity, no less! How could he let me down???

2. Perhaps it was for the best, though....I did my taxes last week and apparently I'm taking too many deductions and now owe the tax man some real money--money that I don't have!!! I guess I gotta get myself out of debt before I can go signing a lease.

3. I had a job interview just a few days after the apartment/tax debacle, and thought things might be looking up. We all know how I feel about the plantation, so I'm ready to leave whenever. Add to that the fact that the overseer got fired 5 days ago (the one above the massa, not in our office), and they're cutting people's pay like a pimp with shiv, and it would seem that this interview was a gift from the heavens. The job was an admin position, but I'm just looking for something that lets me pursue my blackting dreams and pay my bills. I met with the entire staff for three hours, and they seemed to like me.

Unfortunately, I didn't like them.

Although the benefits would have been good, there was zero flexibility. I would have been manning the phones, doing spreadsheets, and planning events non-stop. "But it's really relaxed in June and July," the current admin said encouragingly. "You can take more than 10 minutes for lunch, you know?"

No, I don't know. For all the drama of my current position, I am able to run off for auditions, doctor's appointments, and generally handle my business as long as the magazine gets written.
I was going back and forth on even going back in for a 2nd interview when I got the following email from my potential boss--at 11pm last Saturday night, no less:

Please accept an apology for my delay in getting back to you. Friday turned into a nightmare because we had to completely change meetings we'd scheduled with an editor of [An Important Newspaper]. One of the paper's reporters was taken into custody early Friday by Col. Qaddafi's troops in Libya so the editor had to change his schedule for the interviews.

Y'all, I can't working in an office where Qaddafi's messin' up the flow! I get frazzled when an artist doesn't send high-resolution digital images--detainees would be a whole 'nother Oprah!

But am I an idiot? Should I have gotten out while the gettin' was good? I had dinner with a friend last night who didn't mince words, basically saying that I was a fool and lazy to not get a new apt and leave the sinking ship that is my current job.

But what about my blackting dreams? Should they wither like a raisin in the sun?

Last week's showcase was lackluster, with 15 comics performing at 6 minutes each--it was like speed-dating the audience, only they weren't interested in making a love connection. I was un-lucky number 13, and by the time I went up, their eyes had glazed over, and many were fighting with the waitresses over the bill (that drink minimum's no joke!). The producer did say he liked my energy and presence and wanted to see more work, and another comic told me to contact him about doing a set on his show, but it's not exactly momentum building.

I've been given a copy of "The Artist's Way," along with several rhyming platitudes. I think my favorite is "Man's Rejection is God's Protection." This came after my pitches to The Hairpin kept getting rejected. The editor is treating me like every man I've ever been on a date with, saying, "You're funny, but not quite right."

Le sigh. (it's more dramatic if it's French)

So here are a couple of tidbits that missed the Hairpin by a hair (how could she not love such puns?!):

Filed Under: Childhood, Television, Memories

I was cleaning stuff out of my old bedroom, and had to sort through a bunch of boxes, two of which were filled with the entire Babysitter's Club Collection. A bunch of other boxes were filled with paper, and as I prepared to dump them all in the recycling bin, the hoarder in me had to pore over every single one to make sure it was all really junk. I came across many gems, and figured the best way to preserve the memories would be to type them up and share them with strangers. Here is one of many letter I wrote to actors in my favorite TV shows.


Written in October of 1993. I was 9 years old (in my best attempt at cursive):

Dear Rider,

My name is [Sojourner], and I'm a HUGE fan of your show. You're a really good actor, and I think you're really cute. :)
When did you know you wanted to be an actor? I want to be an actress, but I don't think there are black people on Boy Meets World, so I'm trying to get on The Cosby Show. Or GHOSTWRITER--have you ever seen that show? It's about a ghost that solves mysteries by rearranging letters. It's cool.

I don't normally write fan letters, and I don't want you to think I'm a creepy stalker [note: "I am not a creepy stalker" was written on the black flap of the envelope as well...which i think is the same as saying 'i'm mentally ill'.]. I just wanted to say how much I liked your show and how cool I think you are. Is Topanga nice in real life? Do you still have to go to school, or are you done with it forever?

Sorry if my handwriting's messy. I kept trying to start over and this is my last piece of good paper, so I hope it's okay.

Sincerely,
[Sojourner 'You Can't Handle The' Truth]

When Rider got a black girlfriend in the last two seasons of the show, I knew it was no coincidence.

File under: Accomplishments, Beauty, How to be a Girl
Thai Tween is Named World's Hairiest Girl

Supatra Sasuphan has told of her delight at being named the 'World's Hairiest Girl.' She has been teased her entire life by other children calling her “monkey face” and “wolf girl”, but now the 11-year-old has been given a Guinness World Record and she says it has helped her become extremely popular at school. "I'm very happy to be in the Guinness World Records! A lot of people have to do a lot to get in," she said. "All I did was answer a few questions and then they gave it to me."



I think the questions were:

1. Are you hairy?
2. Are you pre-pubescent?
3. Is your self-esteem so healthy that grown women wanna be you?

I wonder if she's got a hip buddy named Styles who lets her surf on the hood of his van.

There's also another one about how to get through weddings as the single, my-life's-not-remotely-together-enough-to-even-begin-to-dream-about-such-a-thing friend, but I'll save that for next week.

Have a good weekend!

xoxo,

blacktress!

The Children Are Our Future

Hey Gang, What do you think of the redesign? I was getting sick and tired of the blah background, so I decided to change it up--thoughts?

Monday night I met with a publicist to discuss ways to take the blacktress to the next level. She was a very Earth Mother, actualize-your-potential Jewess, and I kinda have a friend crush (and not just because she met with me free of charge). She said a lot of things that were good, but mostly it was about experimenting and tracking changes. She advised that I try different things, but don't just disregard the results--really look at them and write them down. Like, if I do a show in BK, how many referrals do I get? What's kind of response do I get when I host versus doing a short set? How does blogging drive traffic to www.YouTube.com/BlacktressComedy? Only by looking at the results will I get a game plan, be able to set realistic goals, and measure success.

It may sound obvious, but when it takes all my strength to make myself wash the damn dishes, there's no suggestion that's too small. So, in the spirit of experimenting and tracking changes, I'm setting up a blogging schedule--even when I don't feel funny, or feel too busy, or don't want to risk losing my job because I'm being inappropriate, I am going to put up a post every other day. So it begins...

Luckily, I've got something to work with. Yesterday I went to my old high school to meet with an admin about becoming a tutor (blacktress needs to get a well-paying side hustle, and nothing says 'cash-in-hand' like Upper East Side private school tutoring). I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but my private schooling on the UES began when I was a mere 10 years old, and began what would become a lifetime of studies INSIDE CAUCASIA. It wasn't just hard being bigger and blacker than everyone else, but I didn't have a nanny or a kate spade bag AND I wore a size medium (which made me an object of ridicule--I kid you not). Within the first semester I quickly learned that I had to get really funny really fast, and I wouldn't be dating anyone until college, if ever.
I think it could have been when a girl said to me on the first day of music class, "if you don't stop being the little bitch you are, you're never going to make friends here."
If by "bitch" she meant "painfully shy," then I guess she was right.

Needless to say, as I made my way up Park Avenue yesterday, I felt a bit awkward (and really old). By the time I got to the administrator's office, I had an eating disorder. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear Lady Gaga playing--ah, the freedom of private schooling. I saw a poster on the wall advertising the UJIMA* club, which spearheaded the Kenya Project.
Where was UJIMA when I was a lass?! I could have used some inspiration and outreach!
My memories are quieted by a sudden stampede of children flooded into the stairwell, and I started to making my scared noise (which sounds a lot like this:

They were just so full of energy and life--I couldn't take it.

Our meeting was brief, but I'm hopeful that something will come of it--even though it might not happen until the fall.

I went upstairs to visit a teacher (the one whose son has been deeply influenced by a blacktress), and the next thing I know, she's playing my YouTube for everyone in the history department. Students desperately trying to learn couldn't help but listen in.
"Does this have profanity in it?" one boy asked.
"Dude, I'm dropping F-bombs like Hiroshima and Nagasaki!"
I think it was the term "wintercourse" that made him leave the room.

It was kind of surreal to sit in a room where I used to have nervous breakdowns about Robespierre and have people watching my stand-up. It was even more surreal when one of the teaching fellows (a young black woman who went to Dartmouth and can handle Sojourner's Truths) asked me if I'd be interested in being a mentor to a current student.

There is nothing I want more to help another young, gifted, and black mind traverse the treacherous land of CAUCASIA. I told her to give me someone who was really cool, and who needed to be empowered. I'm already getting together a reading list, which so far includes Audre Lorde, bell hooks, and June Jordan.

Just think of it, guys--we'll sit around, braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. I'll rent The Women of Brewster Place and show her our history. It'll be, like, the ultimate safe space!

In other news: Anybody got a job for me that'll pay real money AND give me the flexibility to live my dreams?



*Every time I type "Ujima", both Microsoft Word and Blogger suggest I change it to JEMIMA. Is the Microsoft Office Suite racist???

Scream 5?

This Friday is the premiere of Scream 4, the fourth installment of Wes Craven’s self-reflexive meta-horror franchise that gave Neve Campbell a reason to dream after Po5 got canceled (and inspired the creepy mismatched romance between Courtney Cox and David Arquette).

When I saw the trailer for the first time, I thought it was one of those SNL parodies, and had a good ol’ chuckle. When I saw the subway posters, I kind of threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Guys, the last Scream movie came out in 2000! 11 years ago! I know you gotta space things out to avoid overload ), but this is a bit ridiculous. The first film came out in 1996; the second appeared in 1997. Scream 3 came out in 2000, and even that was pushing it (a movie about the making of a movie based on the events of a previous movie?—Kevin Williamson, get over yourself). And now, 11 years later, they're coming back with the same look like the dude at your high school reunion who you used to think was hot and is still wearing his letter jacket--it's sad. For those of you who didn't go to suburban high school, think of it this way: it's like a baby whose parents call it "our little surprise," when they really want to call it an “IUD fail”.

Guys, the last film in the series came out before 9/11. The climate has changed, the world in which Sidney Prescott was born is not the same world that wants her back.

Don’t get me wrong—I loved me some Scream. That Matthew Lillard was a real hottie (what happened to him?), and Rose McGowan’s desperate attempt to avoid death through a doggy door left me riveted. But that was in 1996, when Dawson’s Creek provided a guide to living, and prayed each night that my braces would come off early. Besides, isn’t Neve Campbell, much like retirement-ready Detective Murtaugh, getting too old for this shit?

At this rate, what would Scream 5 be like?

I’m glad you asked! Here’s a treatment I’m working on. (Rumor has it Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven are in a feud, so I’m hoping to strike while the irons aren’t speaking to each other!)

The year is 2034

A bloated Sidney Prescott, now 57 years old, sits in boardroom with a lawyer by her side, facing her soon-to-be ex-husband (played by a haggard Pierce Brosnan). He and his counsel whisper quietly. Sidney takes a sip from a tumbler of gin. Her skin is wrinkly, sallow, and her teeth are yellowed from years of nicotine. James Beekman, her husband’s attorney, demands millions of dollars (which Sidney earned speaking at women’s shelters around the world), citing his wife’s emotional torment throughout their marriage. Sidney’s never been able to really love a man—and she’s never been able to sit in a movie theater or stand near a window after dark. Loving her was—at first—easy cause she was beautiful, and then it became impossible because she was crazy.

Sidney and her lawyer exchange a look. As she prepares to speak, a cellphone on the table vibrates, causing her to seize in terror. Sidney becomes a whirling dervish, all fists and elbows, attacking everyone in sight. She looks down at the bloodied bodies left on the boardroom floor. She grabs a phone and dials a number from memory.

“Gale, it’s me, Sid. I need you, baby.”

Cut to the exterior of the building. Gale Weathers drives up in a minivan, and flings her skeletal legs out of the vehicle. She hobbles over to Sidney, who’s chain smoking by a potted fern. She runs to Gale and hugs her tight, with class Neve Campbell tears streaming down her face, and her upper lip all snotty.

“It’s okay,” Gale whispers. “It’s okay.”

Prepare to Have Your Mind BLOWN

Hey friends,

You know how I like to keep some white men in my corner, just in case these monkey moms try to bring back slavery. Well, it would seem that many of my back-up freedom fighters have actually learned a thing or two from the blacktress. Case in point: the music video below. I got this straight from the producer, y'all! He's a southern ginger with a Jewish sensibility, and the only heterosexual male friend I've never made out with. And now, with the production of this video, he has made a blacktress proud...



For those of you who are not familiar, Big Freedia is a leader in the "bounce" scene--a genre of hip hop developed in New Orleans.
Perhaps Lafayette from True Blood isn't quite so fictional after all. (Which I hope is true, because I think he is the greatest character--and Nelsan Ellis, the finest blacktor--of our time.)


LOVE HIM!

When my Confederate friend told me he'd moved to N'awlins, I was a bit wary at first, wondering if he was just trying to bed vulnerable brown women with the line, "Hey girl, are your levees still broken???" and call it "working for habitat for humanity." But he's actually being of service and getting his filmmaking on with reputable talent. Guys, this music is so real, the New York Times even wrote about it! I am kind of obsessed, and my only regret is that JJSiii hadn't alerted me to this sensation sooner.

When I asked him how on earth he got involved in this gender-bending rap world, he looked at me with his head held high and his back straight as an arrow and said:

"I said to myself, Michael Gottwald, you can't come home to your family for Christmas in Virginia with your head held high unless you can say with confidence, Mom and Dad, I produced a heavily psychedelic music video about an 80-foot transgendered African-American queer man demanding that small white folks, spandex-clad black folks, and Max Goldblatt dance to a sexually explicit, New Orleans strain of hip hop called 'bounce' in the only way the genre allows: by shaking their ass with tremendous vigor.

Also, Freedia was all like 'Where the downtown at?' and i was like, Here!, HERE Freedia! Here I am! Let me produce a video for you!"

Bless his cotton socks!

A Dream Deferred--And Decoded

Have I told you guys about how I have reality-nightmares? As KWalsh can attest, my most frightening dreamscapes don’t involved faceless killers, falling into an abyss, or snakes on a plane. I often wake up hyperventilating over things that could very likely happen, but the timeline’s a bit off. Take, for instance, last night’s nachtmare:

I was at home with my mother, and the house looked the way it did before she moved out (you know, furnished), but she was just visiting. She’d spent the night, and we were watching TV. Just then, I look at my Google Calendar (yes, Google even invades my dreams) and realize that at 7pm I've gotta go perform the role of Puck in a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”—and I totally don’t know my lines!

I remember that we’d done the show a month ago, and even then I was shaky (which was a callback to a dream I had last week, in which I was in a play—that took place in my high school auditorium—and didn’t know any of my cues or lines. How the hell is my subconscious getting self-referential?). My mom had asked me if I wanted to go shopping, and I said I couldn’t because I needed to learn the lines—and I needed to print out the script, cause I couldn't find it! I’m in a frenzy, as I figure out how to get it printed, and somehow, my mom prints it in her old office which no longer exists. I sit down to start reading and ask her to help me when she heads for the door. She says she’s going shopping and has no patience for running lines. I get angry and whiny, like a toddler, saying, “Please, help me. I’m sorry I can’t go shopping and I completely forgot about this and I need help. You’re not even coming to see me? No one’s coming, not [Jewboo], not you. Why doesn’t anyone love me or want to support me???”

I wake up, not shaken as much as depressed. Guys, I really just feel like I’m….always stuck in second gear, like it hasn’t been my day, my week, my month, or even my year—you know? I don’t know what to make of the random dream, so let’s go to the good ol’ Dream Dictionary to get some answers.

To dream that you are reading Shakespeare, signifies your literary aptitude. You are well-read and knowledgeable. Consider which Shakespeare novel you are reading and how the plot line may parallel a situation in your waking life.

Um, I’m not reading any Shakespeare right now. I'm already a bit wary of their misuse of a comma, but let’s see what a dream about a script means:

To read or write a script in your dream, signifies the character or persona that you portray in your waking life. The dream is telling you that you have power to control the direction and path of your own life.

What if I don’t know any of the lines of my script? According to this logic, it means I don’t have the power to control the direction and path of my own life!!!!

Hm....that is pretty much the problem. These kids are good. Being a blacktress, I have to look up what “theater” represents:

To dream that you are in a theater, signifies your social life. Consider how the performance parallels to situations in your waking life. Observe how the characters relate to you and how they may represent an aspect of yourself. You may be taking on a new role. Alternatively, the dream is a metaphor that you are being too theatrical or too melodramatic. Are you being a dream queen?
They may be on to something. However, they have nothing under the heading of “performing,” yet they do have an entry on “Pepperoni”:
To see or eat pepperoni in your dream, indicates that you need to add a little pizzazz and spice to your life. Alternatively, it denotes wholeness and completeness.

Okay, this DreamMoods.com ain’t makin’ a lick of sense, as my G-unit would say. Do I need to add pizzazz or am I whole and complete? Am I being followed and manipulated by a fairy king? Oberon, is that you?????

I don’t know what’s up, guys—one minute Everything’s Coming Up Blacktress, and the next minute my own boyfriend can’t make it to my show, my mom tells me she Googled me yet again and “found nothing bad, like last time. You did what I told you to do, great”, and as soon as I walked in the office, my coworker greeted me with “you had an interview this morning, didn’t you?” just because I’m dressed slightly above average.

For the record, I didn’t have an interview, and am only dressed this way because I’ll be attending a watercolor organization’s reception tonight (blacktress + geriatrics = awkward times and racial slurs).

How y’all been?

Taxicab Confessions/ A (Street) Car Service Named Desire

Hey gang,

I’m sitting in on a 2-hour conference call, which is as good a time to blog as any. Apparently Monday's post was a bit morose, so I am here to make amends. Although nothing much has happened in the last 20 hours, I completely forgot to tell you about my most recent cab ride, which was wonderfully inappropriate:

It was Saturday night at about midnight. I was coming from Jewboo’s house in the depths of Greenpoint, and I was quite emotional. I was tired, pissed off, and even had a bit of a cry on the steps when I was waiting for the car to arrive. I just wanted to get home and sleep so that the annoying night would be over. Because I’m in broke-ass Greenpoint, I can’t just go out and hail a cab—I have to call a car service. It started off easily enough, as I hop in and tell him to take me to a train station in downtown Manhattan (economy is rough, y’all, gotta watch the wallet!). He asks me where I’m ultimately headed, and then offers to take me to to my home in Harlem for a rather low fee. My spirits perk up as I totally pull a Blanche Dubois.
As I’m texting a friend to pass the time, the cab driver starts chatting me up.

RandoCabDriver: How was your night?
Me: It was okay.
RCD: Did you have some drinks?
Me: No.
RCD [turning on the radio]: Do you watch cricket?
Me: No?
RCD: No, you don’t?! It’s the world championships.
Me: Who’s playing?
RCD: My country, Sri Lanka. We will win, I feel it.
Me: That’s good.
RCD: You going to your boyfriend’s house?
Me: No [note the use of one-word answers—which I hope will let him know I’m not trying to talk].
RCD: You don’t have boyfriend?
Me: I’m going home. [note my attempt at changing the subject]
RCD: You have some drinks tonight?
Me: No [Why does he keep asking me this? I start to wonder if he’s projecting just as he starts speeding down the highway.]
RCD: I like you. You are very innocent.
Me: I am? [clearly years of cab driving hasn’t taught him how to read people].
RCD: I can take you out?
Me: What? [when faced with a question that should never be asked, I’ve found it’s best to feign stupidity.]
RCD: I cook you dinner. I am a very good cook.
Me: Really? [I don’t know what else to say. Notice I did not reply to his invitation.]
RCD: yes, yes, I am very good. What kind of food you like to eat? You eat meat?
Me: Yes
RCD: You eat chicken? You eat lamb? You like lentils?
Me: I like chicken.
RCD: I make very good chicken. Last night I make a delicious rooster.
Me: Oh! [from watching Criminal Minds and "To Catch a Predator", I’ve learned that when faced with a potentially dangerous delusional person, it’s best to agree with them and return their interest—within reason—so as to ensure one’s safety. How did homey go from chicken to rooster?]
RCD: Yes, yes. I went to a farm, and I got it fresh. You like that, huh?
Me: Uh….
RCD: We have some rooster, we have some white wine.
[He’s really getting into this non-existent date. I keep looking up at the street signs to make sure we’re still headed in the direction of my home.]
Me: I don’t like white wine.
RCD [sighs]: Okay, okay. You can have red.
Me: Um…thanks
RCD: I like you. You are very sweet. I know you are very pure.
[Does he think I’m a virgin? I laugh lightly.]
RCD: You fight with your boyfriend?
Me: No.
[Why do I believe that lying will make this easier?]
RCD: I never fight.
Me: Except with roosters! [I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood]
RCD [suddenly sharp]: No! I don’t fight them. I cook them!
Me: Okay.
[We get within five blocks of my crib. I can now spend the rest of the ride giving him directions. I pay him the agreed upon fee and open the door.]
RCD [in a sing-song voice]: Good night Pure and Beautiful. You sure you don't want some rooster and white wine?
Me: No thanks!
RCD: You are so nice, thank you, good night!

He drives off. I’m left outside my door, wishing I could be as pure as he wanted.