Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Another Openin', Another Show
I haven’t been sleeping much lately, guys, so my brain-hole is a little slow today. Every time I try to sleep, my mind goes all a-flutter and I spend the night rolling over more than Rosa Parks in her grave every time a Tyler Perry film comes out.
To make up for my lag, here's a lengthy post. [Names have been changed to protect those with internet]
On 4/28 a friend of mine sent an e-mail asking if I’d be interested in hosting a burlesque show on 4/30. When it comes to my blackting career I never turn down a gig and told her to pass on my info. Thanks to the magic/horror of Facebook, within 15 minutes I was in touch with my friend’s friend, and Lydia, the show’s producer, who weren’t the same person. (red flag #1)
I send Lydia my YouTube link and within minutes I was booked. At the end of the email, she adds, “bring your favorite pair of high heels for the finale dance number!” (red flag #2)
I don’t do choreography, y’all. I hold the talking stick and makey the people laugh.
After staying in bed all day with sinus issues, I showed up at the “venue” about half an hour before the show started. By “venue,” I mean the girl’s apartment.
I walked in to a flurry of Caucasian skin, as ladies ran around in tiny outfits, applying mascara and practicing their moves. I just sat in an armchair and tried not to get in the way.
The only person who was equally useless was a 40-something guy named George, who had silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He gave off a grown-up-hipster-on-a-gluten-free-diet vibe, so I made chit chat and discovered that he was Lydia's roommate.
“So what do you do?” I ask. Really, I was wondering why he’d stay in his apartment on a Saturday night when his roommate’s having a burlesque show.
George takes a beat. “For a living I work in IT.” (red flag #3)
Okay, I’ve watched enough TLC and A&E specials to know when someone’s hiding a freaky secret. I asked him what he did for fun, laughs, for kicks. George looks me square in the eye, adjusts his specs, and says, “I teach rope bondage to couples, showing them how to engage in rope play. And I also do it for fun. I tie up women, men—mostly women—and explore the pleasure and sexuality in that.”
[I’m not even flagging that shit, guys. It speaks for itself.]
Oh good lord.
Before I could respond to this over-share, a young lady with nice boobs interrupted me. “Are you Starshine?” she asked frantically.
I am not Starshine.
Apparently, Starshine was the emcee, and at 20 minutes to showtime, still hadn’t arrived. (red flag #4) Meanwhile, I’m trying to locate Lydia so that I can find out when I’m going on and how long my set should be. I catch her in mid-sprint and she says, “30, 45 minutes at most.”
Um, unless this is an HBO special, I don’t think that sounds right. “No, not the length of the show-show--how much time do I have?”
She looks helplessly.
“Let’s say 8-10?” I suggest. She nods and waves me away.
At 10 minutes to 9pm, people start trickling in and the show’s nowhere near starting. The apartment was New York City huge—a loft with abstract art on the walls, brand-spanking-new hardwood floors, and an Ikea sensibility. Fancy, and all, but it was someone’s home. Strangers were putting things in the closets. I felt like I was in a youth hostel. A white-haired elderly couple walks in and heads to the kitchen. I take George’s seat so that I’m not in the way of foot traffic. He comes behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders (which are always tied in a Gordian knot). “Are you a drug dealer?” he asks.
Great, now this guy wants to get some heroin and start an orgy.
“You’re just really really tense,” he says in response to my sideways glance.
The buzzer starts ringing incessantly and I become the doorman, letting people in and directing them to take off their shoes, until 9:30—thirty minutes behind schedule, which is when the show finally started.
Starshine appears from “backstage” (the girl’s bedroom) and starts with a sexy opener: “Welcome to Ladies Night,” she says sultrily, trying to get them into the burlesque mood. “First off, the bathrooms are over to your left, down the hall. Tonight we’re guided by the rule, If it’s yellow, let it mellow; If it’s brown, flush it down. We have some lovely ladies for you tonight….”
WHAT?! We're opening a variety show with the notice that urine should remain untouched for as long as possible? What about silencing cell phones, a reminder to enter a raffle, or saving applause until the end?
This is when I realized that I needed to remember every moment of this night for blogging purposes.
The set list was as follows:
1. Starshine opening
2. Tango 1 – Lydia and a dude.
(quick change)
3. Tango 2 – Lydia and a dude—in different outfits.
4. Girl with a guitar, singing a song.
The man in this equation was an Oklahoma transplant covered in tats, had a bar through his nose, and looked very much like he could commit a hate-crime. He quickly shared the story of his first black girlfriend (natch) and told me about how he was made an “honorary African American” in third grade. I was torn away from my real-life episode of “True Life: I’m Polyamorous” by a guy named Fernando. I had gone on a rant about the stand-up comedian/former marine/dating coach during my set, which spoke to his heart.
“I know that guy you were talking about in your set,” Fernando said. "We used to work together doing coaching."
OH MY GOD. Of all the burlesque shows-in-an-apartment, in all the world, Fernando had come to the one where I was doing a set. We went into a discussion about what a “nice asshole” the dating coach was, and I suddenly felt my entire night—nee, my existence—was vindicated.
I gave out my new business cards like they were candy, and Sunday night it came back to bite me in the ass. I got an e-mail from the Random Dude titled “Drinks?”:
I think the title speaks for itself. I'm the bald man from the burlesque show if you haven't figured it out :)
I enjoyed chatting with you and would like to have a chance to do it again. Normally, I call to do these kinds of things, but I'm currently out of the country. I'll be back thursday.
Wanna meet up on Friday evening?
Ah, memories of my slutty days, where this drunken bald man’s oddly formal email, complete with the intimation that he’s worldly, would have given me something to swoon about for days—and blog about for weeks. Despite the 3 minutes of my set that I devoted to my Jewboo, I still had to explain to him that I was off the market. I guess it’s good to know that I’ve still got it after all these years! It’s even better to know that I am not tempted to stray from Jewboo out of fear, boredom, the desire for a tall man, or a need for attention. Growth!
*(You know, right in the middle of second semester, when everyone’s talking about gender as a performance, and your roommate’s now going by the name ‘Zev’ until he/she can decide how to self-identify.)
To make up for my lag, here's a lengthy post. [Names have been changed to protect those with internet]
On 4/28 a friend of mine sent an e-mail asking if I’d be interested in hosting a burlesque show on 4/30. When it comes to my blackting career I never turn down a gig and told her to pass on my info. Thanks to the magic/horror of Facebook, within 15 minutes I was in touch with my friend’s friend, and Lydia, the show’s producer, who weren’t the same person. (red flag #1)
I send Lydia my YouTube link and within minutes I was booked. At the end of the email, she adds, “bring your favorite pair of high heels for the finale dance number!” (red flag #2)
I don’t do choreography, y’all. I hold the talking stick and makey the people laugh.
After staying in bed all day with sinus issues, I showed up at the “venue” about half an hour before the show started. By “venue,” I mean the girl’s apartment.
I walked in to a flurry of Caucasian skin, as ladies ran around in tiny outfits, applying mascara and practicing their moves. I just sat in an armchair and tried not to get in the way.
The only person who was equally useless was a 40-something guy named George, who had silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He gave off a grown-up-hipster-on-a-gluten-free-diet vibe, so I made chit chat and discovered that he was Lydia's roommate.
“So what do you do?” I ask. Really, I was wondering why he’d stay in his apartment on a Saturday night when his roommate’s having a burlesque show.
George takes a beat. “For a living I work in IT.” (red flag #3)
Okay, I’ve watched enough TLC and A&E specials to know when someone’s hiding a freaky secret. I asked him what he did for fun, laughs, for kicks. George looks me square in the eye, adjusts his specs, and says, “I teach rope bondage to couples, showing them how to engage in rope play. And I also do it for fun. I tie up women, men—mostly women—and explore the pleasure and sexuality in that.”
[I’m not even flagging that shit, guys. It speaks for itself.]
Oh good lord.
Before I could respond to this over-share, a young lady with nice boobs interrupted me. “Are you Starshine?” she asked frantically.
I am not Starshine.
Apparently, Starshine was the emcee, and at 20 minutes to showtime, still hadn’t arrived. (red flag #4) Meanwhile, I’m trying to locate Lydia so that I can find out when I’m going on and how long my set should be. I catch her in mid-sprint and she says, “30, 45 minutes at most.”
Um, unless this is an HBO special, I don’t think that sounds right. “No, not the length of the show-show--how much time do I have?”
She looks helplessly.
“Let’s say 8-10?” I suggest. She nods and waves me away.
At 10 minutes to 9pm, people start trickling in and the show’s nowhere near starting. The apartment was New York City huge—a loft with abstract art on the walls, brand-spanking-new hardwood floors, and an Ikea sensibility. Fancy, and all, but it was someone’s home. Strangers were putting things in the closets. I felt like I was in a youth hostel. A white-haired elderly couple walks in and heads to the kitchen. I take George’s seat so that I’m not in the way of foot traffic. He comes behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders (which are always tied in a Gordian knot). “Are you a drug dealer?” he asks.
Great, now this guy wants to get some heroin and start an orgy.
“You’re just really really tense,” he says in response to my sideways glance.
The buzzer starts ringing incessantly and I become the doorman, letting people in and directing them to take off their shoes, until 9:30—thirty minutes behind schedule, which is when the show finally started.
Starshine appears from “backstage” (the girl’s bedroom) and starts with a sexy opener: “Welcome to Ladies Night,” she says sultrily, trying to get them into the burlesque mood. “First off, the bathrooms are over to your left, down the hall. Tonight we’re guided by the rule, If it’s yellow, let it mellow; If it’s brown, flush it down. We have some lovely ladies for you tonight….”
WHAT?! We're opening a variety show with the notice that urine should remain untouched for as long as possible? What about silencing cell phones, a reminder to enter a raffle, or saving applause until the end?
This is when I realized that I needed to remember every moment of this night for blogging purposes.
The set list was as follows:
1. Starshine opening
2. Tango 1 – Lydia and a dude.
(quick change)
3. Tango 2 – Lydia and a dude—in different outfits.
4. Girl with a guitar, singing a song.
(quick change)
5. Lydia AGAIN—in a different outfit—doing a solo piece. It is an interpretive dance to "Walkin' in Memphis" which she dedicates to “all the workers.”
[NB: There have been three costume changes and Starshine has changed outfits twice. I do not know which workers she's referring to.]
6. Girl with guitar comes back again and does an original song.
5. Lydia AGAIN—in a different outfit—doing a solo piece. It is an interpretive dance to "Walkin' in Memphis" which she dedicates to “all the workers.”
[NB: There have been three costume changes and Starshine has changed outfits twice. I do not know which workers she's referring to.]
6. Girl with guitar comes back again and does an original song.
[She is the best part of the show, and her voice sounds like she swallowed Etta James. I want to be her bff.]
Raffle-prize drawing—people have entered to win a sex workshop or a massage.
7. I come on and do stand-up.
8. Burlesque number.
*Random dude in the audience comes over and starts chatting me up, telling me how funny I was and asking where I regularly perform. Although I appreciated the praise, we were IN AN APARTMENT and he was talking way too loudly.*
9. Another burlesque number
[note: this is ALL TAKING PLACE IN AN APARTMENT. PEOPLE ARE SITTING ON THE FLOOR—EXCEPT FOR THE ELDERLY COUPLE, WHO ARE SITTING ON THE FUTON.]
10. Lydia COMES OUT AGAIN in a new outfit and performs a burlesque number “Teeth” by Lady Gaga. She is wearing a negligee and high heels, and smiles to reveal vampire fangs.
11. All the ladies come out—IN NEW OUTFITS—and do a group number to “In These Shoes,” by Bette Midler.
Did I forget to mention that this show cost $12 in advance, or $15 at the door?
When I asked what this was raising money for (since she’d already told me it wasn’t a paid gig), George said, “It's just for Lydia.”
Oh, really? You’re charging folks to come to your house, take off their shoes, sit on your floor, leave their valuables unattended, and probably exchange bedbugs while you do modern dance to an early-90s power ballad? I need to find some moneyed, non-actor friends who'll go to any lengths to support my art.
As much as the show was like something you’d see in a freshman dorm at a liberal arts college,* the crowd loved the blacktress. I was really flustered and not used to being in someone’s living room with 40 pairs of eyes staring straight at me. I also wasn’t sure if they could handle my truths, but a throw-away line about gentrification went over really well, and I loosened up quickly. I haven’t performed in front of a “normal” audience (i.e. not actors, comedians, or improvisers) in a while, and it was good to remember that regular folks aren’t so hard to win over.
After the show, a red-haired woman came up to me and gave me some love. I noticed her in the crowd because she was one of the few people to laugh at my joke about sister wives. “We were cracking up because I’m on a date with this guy and his girlfriends [that's no typo, guys], and before we got here we were joking about being his harem!”
I then spent the next 10 minutes following her around the room screaming “WHERE ARE THE SISTER-WIVES???”
I found them. They were sweet yet homely. It was just like TV.
Raffle-prize drawing—people have entered to win a sex workshop or a massage.
7. I come on and do stand-up.
8. Burlesque number.
*Random dude in the audience comes over and starts chatting me up, telling me how funny I was and asking where I regularly perform. Although I appreciated the praise, we were IN AN APARTMENT and he was talking way too loudly.*
9. Another burlesque number
[note: this is ALL TAKING PLACE IN AN APARTMENT. PEOPLE ARE SITTING ON THE FLOOR—EXCEPT FOR THE ELDERLY COUPLE, WHO ARE SITTING ON THE FUTON.]
10. Lydia COMES OUT AGAIN in a new outfit and performs a burlesque number “Teeth” by Lady Gaga. She is wearing a negligee and high heels, and smiles to reveal vampire fangs.
11. All the ladies come out—IN NEW OUTFITS—and do a group number to “In These Shoes,” by Bette Midler.
Did I forget to mention that this show cost $12 in advance, or $15 at the door?
When I asked what this was raising money for (since she’d already told me it wasn’t a paid gig), George said, “It's just for Lydia.”
Oh, really? You’re charging folks to come to your house, take off their shoes, sit on your floor, leave their valuables unattended, and probably exchange bedbugs while you do modern dance to an early-90s power ballad? I need to find some moneyed, non-actor friends who'll go to any lengths to support my art.
As much as the show was like something you’d see in a freshman dorm at a liberal arts college,* the crowd loved the blacktress. I was really flustered and not used to being in someone’s living room with 40 pairs of eyes staring straight at me. I also wasn’t sure if they could handle my truths, but a throw-away line about gentrification went over really well, and I loosened up quickly. I haven’t performed in front of a “normal” audience (i.e. not actors, comedians, or improvisers) in a while, and it was good to remember that regular folks aren’t so hard to win over.
After the show, a red-haired woman came up to me and gave me some love. I noticed her in the crowd because she was one of the few people to laugh at my joke about sister wives. “We were cracking up because I’m on a date with this guy and his girlfriends [that's no typo, guys], and before we got here we were joking about being his harem!”
I then spent the next 10 minutes following her around the room screaming “WHERE ARE THE SISTER-WIVES???”
I found them. They were sweet yet homely. It was just like TV.
The man in this equation was an Oklahoma transplant covered in tats, had a bar through his nose, and looked very much like he could commit a hate-crime. He quickly shared the story of his first black girlfriend (natch) and told me about how he was made an “honorary African American” in third grade. I was torn away from my real-life episode of “True Life: I’m Polyamorous” by a guy named Fernando. I had gone on a rant about the stand-up comedian/former marine/dating coach during my set, which spoke to his heart.
“I know that guy you were talking about in your set,” Fernando said. "We used to work together doing coaching."
OH MY GOD. Of all the burlesque shows-in-an-apartment, in all the world, Fernando had come to the one where I was doing a set. We went into a discussion about what a “nice asshole” the dating coach was, and I suddenly felt my entire night—nee, my existence—was vindicated.
I gave out my new business cards like they were candy, and Sunday night it came back to bite me in the ass. I got an e-mail from the Random Dude titled “Drinks?”:
I think the title speaks for itself. I'm the bald man from the burlesque show if you haven't figured it out :)
I enjoyed chatting with you and would like to have a chance to do it again. Normally, I call to do these kinds of things, but I'm currently out of the country. I'll be back thursday.
Wanna meet up on Friday evening?
Ah, memories of my slutty days, where this drunken bald man’s oddly formal email, complete with the intimation that he’s worldly, would have given me something to swoon about for days—and blog about for weeks. Despite the 3 minutes of my set that I devoted to my Jewboo, I still had to explain to him that I was off the market. I guess it’s good to know that I’ve still got it after all these years! It’s even better to know that I am not tempted to stray from Jewboo out of fear, boredom, the desire for a tall man, or a need for attention. Growth!
*(You know, right in the middle of second semester, when everyone’s talking about gender as a performance, and your roommate’s now going by the name ‘Zev’ until he/she can decide how to self-identify.)
Friday, April 29, 2011
Tom Papa Don’t Preach!
He speaks truth to power—and is HI-larious!
Last night I went to Tom Papa's Comedy Central taping. I'd never seen him before, but I just wanted to go see a pro show, as I find it way more useful than attending a bunch of open mics where comedians are just trying all their new/worst stuff. Tapings are free, sure to be funny (since the comic’s doing this for TV, he’s bringing his A-game), and make me feel really, really cool.
I didn’t check out YouTube clips beforehand because I wanted to be surprised. Turns out that he’s the host of the reality show “The Marriage Ref.” I’m kinda glad I didn’t know that, or I wouldn’t have gone.
I went with two of my gal pals, and was more nervous that they wouldn’t like it—after all the open mics I’ve been to, my tolerance for raunch, crap, and silliness is pretty high.
When he walked on stage in a suit and tie, I knew it was gonna be all right. I am so over comedians who act like they’re too cool to iron a damn shirt or put on a sensible pair of slacks. If you have the talking stick and are forcing me to look at you, please do me the service of not dressing like a sister wife! (Those gals are clearly saving some magic for the Celestial Kingdom.)
Apparently, he’s been opening for Seinfeld for years, and you could tell he was a seasoned pro. There was one point where he spaced out, and I could tell he lost his place. But he just took a beat, got quiet, and the crowd went silent—I got very nervous for him, like I was his mom and this was his 8th-grade recital. But the moment he got his bearings, the laughter was uproarious; it was good to see that even if there’s 20 seconds of silence or no punchline, a quiet audience isn’t a bad thing. They'll chill out for a sec, but they won't abandon you that quickly.
I also noticed that his entire set was clean—not a single curse word, no real talk of sex—and it was all about the generalities: women, men, marriage, kids, facebook taking over the world. I’m only now realizing how important it is to have the generalities and the clean sets. I keep being told to “tighten it up”—take out extraneous words, get to the punch faster—and it annoys me, because I’m just not a setup/punchline comedian. But the fact is, if I hope to take it to the next level, I’ve got to have a “tight five” (5-minute set that’s clean, for tv shows like Letterman). And if I want to do touring shows (colleges, events, etc), I’ve also gotta have jokes that aren’t so specific to NYC (apparently, even the line “I have had hasty sex to avoid a subway transfer” won’t really hit home to those in the hinterlands). Realizing how many different types of jokes one has to have—and constantly have ready if the crowd isn’t what you expect—is a bit daunting. On the way home from the show, I broke out my notebook and reviewed my stuff. I made a list of everything that didn’t have a curse word in it (or could still work without the cursing) and everything that any person from any background could relate to. I shy away from that type of "everyman stuff" because it’s kinda boring to me. My brain moves really fast (do you see how much I type in 12 minutes?), so when it comes to a cliché or common occurrence we can all relate to, I’ve got the punchline before it comes, and assume the audience will, too—where’s the humor in that? If I don’t crack myself up with it, why would I say it on stage, you know?
As you can see, Tom Papa has had a profound effect on my life. Here are some clips—maybe he’ll touch something deep inside of you, too.
Last night I went to Tom Papa's Comedy Central taping. I'd never seen him before, but I just wanted to go see a pro show, as I find it way more useful than attending a bunch of open mics where comedians are just trying all their new/worst stuff. Tapings are free, sure to be funny (since the comic’s doing this for TV, he’s bringing his A-game), and make me feel really, really cool.
I didn’t check out YouTube clips beforehand because I wanted to be surprised. Turns out that he’s the host of the reality show “The Marriage Ref.” I’m kinda glad I didn’t know that, or I wouldn’t have gone.
I went with two of my gal pals, and was more nervous that they wouldn’t like it—after all the open mics I’ve been to, my tolerance for raunch, crap, and silliness is pretty high.
When he walked on stage in a suit and tie, I knew it was gonna be all right. I am so over comedians who act like they’re too cool to iron a damn shirt or put on a sensible pair of slacks. If you have the talking stick and are forcing me to look at you, please do me the service of not dressing like a sister wife! (Those gals are clearly saving some magic for the Celestial Kingdom.)
Apparently, he’s been opening for Seinfeld for years, and you could tell he was a seasoned pro. There was one point where he spaced out, and I could tell he lost his place. But he just took a beat, got quiet, and the crowd went silent—I got very nervous for him, like I was his mom and this was his 8th-grade recital. But the moment he got his bearings, the laughter was uproarious; it was good to see that even if there’s 20 seconds of silence or no punchline, a quiet audience isn’t a bad thing. They'll chill out for a sec, but they won't abandon you that quickly.
I also noticed that his entire set was clean—not a single curse word, no real talk of sex—and it was all about the generalities: women, men, marriage, kids, facebook taking over the world. I’m only now realizing how important it is to have the generalities and the clean sets. I keep being told to “tighten it up”—take out extraneous words, get to the punch faster—and it annoys me, because I’m just not a setup/punchline comedian. But the fact is, if I hope to take it to the next level, I’ve got to have a “tight five” (5-minute set that’s clean, for tv shows like Letterman). And if I want to do touring shows (colleges, events, etc), I’ve also gotta have jokes that aren’t so specific to NYC (apparently, even the line “I have had hasty sex to avoid a subway transfer” won’t really hit home to those in the hinterlands). Realizing how many different types of jokes one has to have—and constantly have ready if the crowd isn’t what you expect—is a bit daunting. On the way home from the show, I broke out my notebook and reviewed my stuff. I made a list of everything that didn’t have a curse word in it (or could still work without the cursing) and everything that any person from any background could relate to. I shy away from that type of "everyman stuff" because it’s kinda boring to me. My brain moves really fast (do you see how much I type in 12 minutes?), so when it comes to a cliché or common occurrence we can all relate to, I’ve got the punchline before it comes, and assume the audience will, too—where’s the humor in that? If I don’t crack myself up with it, why would I say it on stage, you know?
As you can see, Tom Papa has had a profound effect on my life. Here are some clips—maybe he’ll touch something deep inside of you, too.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Confessional: Why I Am Obsessed With Kate Middleton
Let me start off by saying one thing: I have zero interest in the royal wedding. Maybe it’s because I'm young, gifted, and black, but something about colonizers joining forces and reproducing just turns me off.
That said, I must take this public forum and turn it into group therapy, because my insurance doesn’t cover it. Here goes:
I am obsessed with Kate Middleton.
Seriously. And not just because she’s like a porcelain doll—it’s because she’s a mystery. What do we know about her? Who is this WASPy mastermind that set her sights on the future king of England back in college and spent her entire adult life waiting to be a bald man's wife?
Okay, maybe every girl wants to be a princess when she’s little, but by the time most of us hit 14, we let it go. Willie had no choice—in exchange for being expelled from his mom’s uterus, he’s had to live in the public eye, which has made him such a self-conscious, nervous wreck that he’s losing his hair (maybe he’s pulling it out, Trichotillomania-style).
Who would want to commit to a life of scrutiny?
Someone who is so child-like, dedicated and disconnected from reality that she makes Natalie Portman's character in Black Swan look like Sweet Valley High twin.
Do you see why she’s impossible to get over? Her determination to do something so archaic takes my breath away.
She’s a public figure with no voice at all. What does Kate do when she’s not running, playing polo, or wearing a pretty dress? Do you think that she decided she wanted to be a princess when the economy got bad and jobs were scarce? I imagine that at the end of a long day of counting calories, she just sits in her house, drinking white wine on the couch with the shades drawn (gotta hide from the paps!). Over the last 8 years, Kate has probably experienced walks of shame that I’ve only lived through in my nightmares.
If I ever met Kate, I don’t know what I’d do.
Well, first, I’d ask if I could call her Kay-Kay, to establish a sense of intimacy. When she gives me the OK, my first question would be immediately answered—what does her voice really sound like????? (Seriously, have you ever heard her speak or read anything she’s been quoted as saying? I’m convinced the girl’s had her jaw wired shut.)
[In my mind, her voice is throaty and her laugh comes from the diaphragm. After you’ve gotten her good and drunk on sauvignon blanc, she cackles loudly and then covers her mouth with her hands in embarrassment.]
My next question would be something like, “Where do you get those ornate hats? Are there Southern Baptist black women in your family?” In my dream she’s wearing a hat during our coffee date, and she lets me try it on. I know it might sound silly to think there are black women in her family, but think about it—Wills proposed during a vacation in Kenya. Guys, that’s in AFRICA. Why would that be the most romantic place to propose if they weren’t already down with the brown?
Kate and William broke up for a few months in 2007, and were back on by the end of the year. In most human relationships, that's called a 'fake-up,' and is just a precursor to final parting within 6 months. Kate, however, managed to get a 25-year-old man to want to commit for life--she is an inspiration.
I bet she left messages that were creepier than the killer in Scream.
We all know Diana had her demons, and was open about her emotional issues—who wants to bet that Wills loves his women tightly wound and self-loathing?
I feel like her hair smells like coconut and she only gives hand jobs.
That said, I must take this public forum and turn it into group therapy, because my insurance doesn’t cover it. Here goes:
I am obsessed with Kate Middleton.
Seriously. And not just because she’s like a porcelain doll—it’s because she’s a mystery. What do we know about her? Who is this WASPy mastermind that set her sights on the future king of England back in college and spent her entire adult life waiting to be a bald man's wife?
Okay, maybe every girl wants to be a princess when she’s little, but by the time most of us hit 14, we let it go. Willie had no choice—in exchange for being expelled from his mom’s uterus, he’s had to live in the public eye, which has made him such a self-conscious, nervous wreck that he’s losing his hair (maybe he’s pulling it out, Trichotillomania-style).
Who would want to commit to a life of scrutiny?
Someone who is so child-like, dedicated and disconnected from reality that she makes Natalie Portman's character in Black Swan look like Sweet Valley High twin.
Do you see why she’s impossible to get over? Her determination to do something so archaic takes my breath away.
She’s a public figure with no voice at all. What does Kate do when she’s not running, playing polo, or wearing a pretty dress? Do you think that she decided she wanted to be a princess when the economy got bad and jobs were scarce? I imagine that at the end of a long day of counting calories, she just sits in her house, drinking white wine on the couch with the shades drawn (gotta hide from the paps!). Over the last 8 years, Kate has probably experienced walks of shame that I’ve only lived through in my nightmares.
If I ever met Kate, I don’t know what I’d do.
Well, first, I’d ask if I could call her Kay-Kay, to establish a sense of intimacy. When she gives me the OK, my first question would be immediately answered—what does her voice really sound like????? (Seriously, have you ever heard her speak or read anything she’s been quoted as saying? I’m convinced the girl’s had her jaw wired shut.)
[In my mind, her voice is throaty and her laugh comes from the diaphragm. After you’ve gotten her good and drunk on sauvignon blanc, she cackles loudly and then covers her mouth with her hands in embarrassment.]
My next question would be something like, “Where do you get those ornate hats? Are there Southern Baptist black women in your family?” In my dream she’s wearing a hat during our coffee date, and she lets me try it on. I know it might sound silly to think there are black women in her family, but think about it—Wills proposed during a vacation in Kenya. Guys, that’s in AFRICA. Why would that be the most romantic place to propose if they weren’t already down with the brown?Kate and William broke up for a few months in 2007, and were back on by the end of the year. In most human relationships, that's called a 'fake-up,' and is just a precursor to final parting within 6 months. Kate, however, managed to get a 25-year-old man to want to commit for life--she is an inspiration.
I bet she left messages that were creepier than the killer in Scream.
We all know Diana had her demons, and was open about her emotional issues—who wants to bet that Wills loves his women tightly wound and self-loathing?
I feel like her hair smells like coconut and she only gives hand jobs.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Bride of Francostein? (too much?)
It’s only 9am, but so much has happened in the last 12 hours that I feel it is behoovy of me to blog. This is a bit unorthodox, I know, seeing as we’ve settled into a nice Mon/Wed/Fri schedule.
So, on my way home last night I was waiting for forever and a day for the train and I noticed a petite man with a tight bod wearing hearing aids.
Okay, before this sounds like a creepy fetish, let me backtrack: We all know that after I graduated from college my first job was working as the voicing actor with the National Theater of the Deaf, during which time I shared a bedroom with a 40-year-old Deaf, lesbian juggler named Pinky, right?
Well, there it is.
Since signing is about thinking in pictures and almost a muscle memory thing, it’s very common to use the wrong sign by thinking only of the word. However, there’s really no excuse for the fact that, instead of the sign for ‘poor,’ I made the sign for ‘penis.’
“I can add that later,” I said. “It’s easier to put the flowery in later than write too much to start. You can just mark it up with places you’d like some ‘passion’ and I’ll put it in on edit.”
He hands me back the page a few minutes later and he’s crossed out, like, 90% of it. I roll my eyes, and start writing again. Ugh, Francostein, you're a real PITA (Pain In The Ass)
Cut to the interior of Duane Reade, a drugstore chain in the city. I’m in line with KWalsh (yes, Katie, you appear in my dreams), and I’m bitching about James Franco. I am so annoyed and frustrated that for some reason I’m sliding on the floor and grabbing KWalsh’s leg, and yelling, JAMES FRANCO IS A TASK MASTER!!!
Then I woke up.
Let me take a moment to say that I am not attracted to James Franco in any way. I think he looks dirty and mean, has a molestache, and his eyes disappear when he smiles. So why he would appear in my REM cycle, I don’t know.
So, on my way home last night I was waiting for forever and a day for the train and I noticed a petite man with a tight bod wearing hearing aids.
Okay, before this sounds like a creepy fetish, let me backtrack: We all know that after I graduated from college my first job was working as the voicing actor with the National Theater of the Deaf, during which time I shared a bedroom with a 40-year-old Deaf, lesbian juggler named Pinky, right?
Well, there it is.
After one of the NTD shows, I met this actor who was really nice. It was at a time when I was really strong as a signer, and I remember him complimenting my skills. He was in his mid-20s, a professional actor, and gave me his business card—which I thought was so cool because it had his headshot on it. Because this was one of the few pleasant experiences I had while touring with the Deaf—and because I’m a low-level hoarder—I kept that headshot-business card until about 2 months ago.
This would explain why I recognized him, even from the back.
I was in a good mood after seeing a great storytelling show, and had already accosted someone that night, so I was on a roll. I got the guy’s attention and asked him his name. It was him!!!!!
We started chatting, and I realized just how rusty my ASL is. He was really nice about it and patient, and I was totally geeking out. I know it sounds cheesy, but I really love signing—it’s expressive, it’s full-body, the language appeals to the blacktress in me—and I’ve missed doing it. There was, however, an awkward moment, when he told me about his plans to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650 mile trail starting from Mexico to Canada. I signed, “Why do you want to go outside and pretend to be dirty and poor?”
This would explain why I recognized him, even from the back.
I was in a good mood after seeing a great storytelling show, and had already accosted someone that night, so I was on a roll. I got the guy’s attention and asked him his name. It was him!!!!!
We started chatting, and I realized just how rusty my ASL is. He was really nice about it and patient, and I was totally geeking out. I know it sounds cheesy, but I really love signing—it’s expressive, it’s full-body, the language appeals to the blacktress in me—and I’ve missed doing it. There was, however, an awkward moment, when he told me about his plans to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650 mile trail starting from Mexico to Canada. I signed, “Why do you want to go outside and pretend to be dirty and poor?”
Since signing is about thinking in pictures and almost a muscle memory thing, it’s very common to use the wrong sign by thinking only of the word. However, there’s really no excuse for the fact that, instead of the sign for ‘poor,’ I made the sign for ‘penis.’
“Well, I guess penises can make you dirty,” he said. What a peach!
Turns out he lives just around the corner from me. I hope we’ll be best friends when he comes back from his crazy-ass hike—unless he becomes too crunchy and spends the next 2 years talking about his communion with nature.
Although that was a magical moment, I was actually inspired to blog when I woke up this morning after having a crazy-ass dream (you know how much I love those)
In this dream, actor, scholar, and Hollywood’s favorite “Renaissance Man” James Franco, was the managing editor of my magazine. I handed him a draft of one of my editor's notes to review, and he gave it a once over. In his dopey “Pineapple Express” way of his, he said, “Where’s the passion? Why aren’t you into it?” He wanted flowery prose about the beauty of representational art.
Turns out he lives just around the corner from me. I hope we’ll be best friends when he comes back from his crazy-ass hike—unless he becomes too crunchy and spends the next 2 years talking about his communion with nature.
Although that was a magical moment, I was actually inspired to blog when I woke up this morning after having a crazy-ass dream (you know how much I love those)
In this dream, actor, scholar, and Hollywood’s favorite “Renaissance Man” James Franco, was the managing editor of my magazine. I handed him a draft of one of my editor's notes to review, and he gave it a once over. In his dopey “Pineapple Express” way of his, he said, “Where’s the passion? Why aren’t you into it?” He wanted flowery prose about the beauty of representational art.
“I can add that later,” I said. “It’s easier to put the flowery in later than write too much to start. You can just mark it up with places you’d like some ‘passion’ and I’ll put it in on edit.”
He hands me back the page a few minutes later and he’s crossed out, like, 90% of it. I roll my eyes, and start writing again. Ugh, Francostein, you're a real PITA (Pain In The Ass)
I'm James Franco. I am a Renaissance Man. I've got a bear in a head lock.
I hand the new draft over to James Franco, my new boss, and watch him read it. He nods a few times, then proceeds to cross out the entire middle paragraph. I start muttering curses and go back to my desk.
Look at him, all judgmental and shit. His eyes are practically saying, "You call that writing? I have an advanced degree from Columbia."
Cut to the interior of Duane Reade, a drugstore chain in the city. I’m in line with KWalsh (yes, Katie, you appear in my dreams), and I’m bitching about James Franco. I am so annoyed and frustrated that for some reason I’m sliding on the floor and grabbing KWalsh’s leg, and yelling, JAMES FRANCO IS A TASK MASTER!!!
Then I woke up.
Let me take a moment to say that I am not attracted to James Franco in any way. I think he looks dirty and mean, has a molestache, and his eyes disappear when he smiles. So why he would appear in my REM cycle, I don’t know.
Ugh, gross.
In other news: I’m suffering from a sex-related knee injury. Who am I?
Monday, April 25, 2011
Monday Funday!
Hey there, Zachs and Kellys!
Love the Ethiopian-Jew cameo.
The video below encapsulates everything that's hilarious about Caucasia, Will Ferrell, and race relations. Oh, and of course, the drunk comedian is great (who hasn't laid down on the couch on the verge of a blackout and said 'my legs are showing.'?) In my mind, Zooey Deschanel has never been less annoying! See for yourself what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real... drunk:
Mmmkay....it's 9:11am and no one else is here. Is today a holiday that I don't know about? Maybe I'm being punked.
Today is Monday/Cheap Easter Candy Day! and although I've been at my desk since 8:15, I am still too slow in the brainhole to come up with witty bloggery. In the place of Sojourner's truths, I'd like to provide you with some humorous internet videos that speak to me in many ways. For the first, I must thank bounce music lover Michael Gottwald. Like me, Michael is a goy who loves Jews, and he has found a video that best encapsulates the lengths we'll go to for a Hebrew National:
Love the Ethiopian-Jew cameo.
The video below encapsulates everything that's hilarious about Caucasia, Will Ferrell, and race relations. Oh, and of course, the drunk comedian is great (who hasn't laid down on the couch on the verge of a blackout and said 'my legs are showing.'?) In my mind, Zooey Deschanel has never been less annoying! See for yourself what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real... drunk:
Mmmkay....it's 9:11am and no one else is here. Is today a holiday that I don't know about? Maybe I'm being punked.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Wedded Bliss/I'm a Fatty
I'm still doing it, guys--three posts this week! To get you through the blacktress-free weekend, here's a real long 'un.....
Yes, I have gotten just that tubby. I left the house in pants that would not zip or button, like some sort of Klump.
FML.
I was in a pit of despair most of this week and haven't been sleeping—my only solace came Tuesday night at 12:30am, when I was able to catch the last half hour of the newest episode of "16 and Pregnant" (right at the good part, where she gives birth, goes home, and discovers that babies are "a lot of work"), followed by the genetic-anomaly documentary "My 40-year-old Child." I thought it would be about adult males who spend all day making humorous internet videos, but it was about a boy who was 40 years old but had the body of a 10 year old, and was blind and mentally handicapped. Really tugged at the heartstrings.
I started to rally yesterday—even sleeping more than 6 hours last night—and then woke up to discover that I'm a lard ass.
So I went to the GAP, where a size 4 is really a 10, and made a purchase. Diet starts today.
I started to rally yesterday—even sleeping more than 6 hours last night—and then woke up to discover that I'm a lard ass.
So I went to the GAP, where a size 4 is really a 10, and made a purchase. Diet starts today.
I think I'm gonna hop on the Jew train and observe Passover, see if I can drop some of this 16-and-pregnant belly. (Any group that builds an Atkins diet into their religion knows how to live. They don't call them 'The Chosen People' for nothing!)
After all, spring’s just around the corner, and summer is two houses down from there, so I won't be able to hide under layers for very long. I can't wait to sit in Central Park and eye-fuck strangers without consent behind my sunglasses (a lady always uses protection). In addition to the lengthened days and increased temperatures, there's yet another reason to stop eating my feelings: wedding season.
[NB: The following piece was rejected from TheHairpin, and largely intended for that audience. Soon-to-be-wedded friends, take a cue from mid-90s R&B songstress Monica, and don't take it personal!*]
I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t think I’d have to go to these until my 30s, at which point I would not only be financially solvent (and able to buy gifts on your multiple registries and travel to such exciting destinations as your grandmother’s home in Des Moines), but I’d have my own boo locked down—or, at the very least, a bitter divorce that would excuse me from attending. So far I am attending four weddings in 2 months, two of which take place on back-to-back weekends in Vermont. What am I supposed to do there? The last time I was out in nature, I got a tick in my woman parts.
“But Sojourner, what about all the free food, unlimited booze, and merriment?” you may ask. Look, I love a good shindig as much as the next blacktress, but by the time I find a dress that I’m willing to be photographed in, book a hotel, and get to the venue, no amount of Trader Joe’s wine can take that edge off. I inevitably find myself standing by the dessert buffet next to the groom’s aunt or cousin, who points to the happy couple saying, “that’s gonna be you next, dear!”
Um, Aunt Rina, my Jewboo and I make Monopoly money and we can’t even share food, let alone a lifetime.
I’m never a bridesmaid, but the fact that I’m a comedian/actor often gets me roped into other tasks. Remember when I planned a bachelorette party for my doctor-friend? Next month I’ll be doing a brief reading for a Midwestern ceremony and even attend the rehearsal dinner (i love food—see above—but why do I have to practice eating???). I know these are magical times in good friends’ lives, but can’t I just comment on the post-wedding facebook album and pretend I was there? Regardless, I’m gonna have to go through hundreds of photos to either un-tag myself or have something to watch while I’m eating ice cream and sobbing.
My mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and I’ll give you something to cry about.” So I’ve come up with a list of activities that can make this wedding season a bit less depressing:
After all, spring’s just around the corner, and summer is two houses down from there, so I won't be able to hide under layers for very long. I can't wait to sit in Central Park and eye-fuck strangers without consent behind my sunglasses (a lady always uses protection). In addition to the lengthened days and increased temperatures, there's yet another reason to stop eating my feelings: wedding season.
[NB: The following piece was rejected from TheHairpin, and largely intended for that audience. Soon-to-be-wedded friends, take a cue from mid-90s R&B songstress Monica, and don't take it personal!*]
I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t think I’d have to go to these until my 30s, at which point I would not only be financially solvent (and able to buy gifts on your multiple registries and travel to such exciting destinations as your grandmother’s home in Des Moines), but I’d have my own boo locked down—or, at the very least, a bitter divorce that would excuse me from attending. So far I am attending four weddings in 2 months, two of which take place on back-to-back weekends in Vermont. What am I supposed to do there? The last time I was out in nature, I got a tick in my woman parts.
“But Sojourner, what about all the free food, unlimited booze, and merriment?” you may ask. Look, I love a good shindig as much as the next blacktress, but by the time I find a dress that I’m willing to be photographed in, book a hotel, and get to the venue, no amount of Trader Joe’s wine can take that edge off. I inevitably find myself standing by the dessert buffet next to the groom’s aunt or cousin, who points to the happy couple saying, “that’s gonna be you next, dear!”
Um, Aunt Rina, my Jewboo and I make Monopoly money and we can’t even share food, let alone a lifetime.
I’m never a bridesmaid, but the fact that I’m a comedian/actor often gets me roped into other tasks. Remember when I planned a bachelorette party for my doctor-friend? Next month I’ll be doing a brief reading for a Midwestern ceremony and even attend the rehearsal dinner (i love food—see above—but why do I have to practice eating???). I know these are magical times in good friends’ lives, but can’t I just comment on the post-wedding facebook album and pretend I was there? Regardless, I’m gonna have to go through hundreds of photos to either un-tag myself or have something to watch while I’m eating ice cream and sobbing.
My mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and I’ll give you something to cry about.” So I’ve come up with a list of activities that can make this wedding season a bit less depressing:
- See opportunity to hang out with people over the age of 40 as a chance meet potential financial backers, agents, and managers. It may be the bride’s special day, but you’ve still got bills to pay, and dreams that can no longer be deferred! (Only do this if you have 20-40 8-x-11 headshots)
- Order both the fish and beef entrée and go to town.
- Arrive at the reception in fuzzy house slippers. If anyone balks, ask them if they know where your mommy is—adorable!
- Find the one psychologist on the guest list and get some free medical attention. (It’s likely that if you have a few too many glasses of white wine, you’ll start crying and this person will come to you.)
- Tack on extra days to either end of the trip and try to get some you-time in. Nothing says “I’m worth it!” like the presidential sweet at the Des Moines Radisson.
- Request “Single Ladies” every hour on the hour, clearing the dance floor each time to display your skillzzz.
- Practice identity theft. Forget the out-of-town guests—find the out-of-country guests and create a mystique. I enjoy starting a whisper campaign in which I claim to be a television star (movies have too international a reach. Name some local show the Germans haven’t heard of, and you’ll be the center of every photo for the rest of the night).
- If you can’t bring a boo, bring your main gay. He’ll look really cute, charm everyone, and always tell you if there’s food in your teeth.
- Help the help—not by doing actual labor, but by chatting them up. They’re almost all creative types and have a wonderful bitter streak that will be able to handle your self-loathing. Bonus points if you make out with a waiter by the crab puffs—or get a doggie bag filled with crudité.
*For those who don't know, here's one of the greatest songs in the history of R&B:
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