Love/Sad

Happy Monday, guys! I love when "Mondays With Artists" just happens naturally. My boss handed me a letter from a reader, and this post basically writes itself! It's an excellent example of our target audience: handwritten in shaky cursive and and somewhat confrontational while also being self-promoting. As always, the grammar and spelling has been transcribed exactly as it appears in the original.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe 80% or more people you have sent this same letter to will probably die before our prescription expires.

[By "prescription," she means "subscription." This is a common mistake among our audience.]

I am 90 years old. I'm probably the youngest 90 year old person you'll ever know or meet. Still I might die tomorrow, I don't have much time left. or next week or next month or next year. However, I'm a great inspiration to many people. I'm still going strong. If you don't believe me--look me up on inter-net. I'm all over the place!

[This is the most confident/depressing paragraph I've ever read.]

If you are interested I will do a story on myself. It will make good reading. People can find out what makes me "tick."

[Um, what makes her "tick"? Like Ke$ha?]

To be an artist you don't have to be an actor, writer, or musician--just a desire.

[I mean, I guess technically she's not wrong there. You don't have to be a singer to be a painter!]

I've been teaching since 1970--and I still do.

Please don't send me anymore bills until my subscription bill is due.

Sincerely,

[old lady name]

The thing is, guys, her paintings aren't half bad. I kinda want to call her.

Back Back from Cali Cali

[ok, guys, I have to be honest. I have been working on this post for about 3 days. I still don't have all of the vids and embeds I'd hoped, but this is getting ri-goddamn-diculous, so let's just put it up.]

Hey friends!

I really should have blogged by now, since I got back on Monday afternoon and all, but I’ve been so tired that even typing is a Sisyphean task. I got back to the plantation Tuesday and am just coming up for air. It’s amazing how three little hours can impact one’s cycle—no, I don’t mean menstrual. I wasn’t able to sleep until my last night in SF, and since coming home I’ve been up all night like an unemployed stoner with a penchant for QVC. I’m going to power through today, though, and hope to hit the hay at a respectable hour tonight.

Anyway, San Francisco was fun! I forgot that I have friends who don’t do comedy/aren’t self-involved and actually want to learn things. I've known a lot of them since before 9/11, so we've really been through a lot. These same friends are also willing to pay to see a blacktress perform and give her a bed to sleep in, which is even more tender. (Microsoft Word is telling me that I should change that to ‘tenderer’ but I just think that sounds too awkward and I won’t dignify it with a spell check.)

I was beyond nervous on Friday, primarily because I was the opening act, but that set was way better than Saturday's. I wasn't awful, mind you, but not as high energy and focused as usual.
But enough about the awkwardness--let's talk about the amazingness.
There were so many funny female comics and it was great to befriend and network. I have come home with several friend crushes, and I'm trying to reign in the internet stalking. One such victim is Chris Burns, a HILARIOUS stand-up and actor from SF. She's a social worker by day, and she speaks truth to power. Showtime won't let me embed it, but you really should check out this clip of her as the social worker on a recent episode of Shameless

I also got to feel really useful by sitting down with the PhD candidate. It was cool to talk about comedy in a serious way and it also got me thinking about what I hope to do. Granted, there were a lot of awkward 'ums' and grasping at straws as I tried to codify something I pretend to do effortlessly. But mostly, it was just great to sit down and talk with a black lesbian who didn't hate me. She asked a few questions that I was able to answer with rapid-fire precision, though, such as:

Who would you compare yourself to, as a comic?

If Kathy Griffin and Chris Rock hate-fucked and she carried the baby to term, that'd be me.

What's your target audience?

18-65, liberal, savvy, educated, and gay.

Do you think a black audience would like your stand-up?

Um......

We totally got along and talked about Jewboos! It's always good to know I'm not the only one miscgenating.*

After meeting up with her, I appeared on a radio show.

Yes, real radio.

Well, ok, it's free radio, but still--people listen to it.

The show was called "The Edge of Insanity," and they were not exaggerating. I had sent an inquiry in advance, just looking to maximize my SF time, and was surprised to get a response. I was even more surprised to find out that the show's host/producer was going to be working the door at the Friday night show. He'd get a chance to see my act and know if I was truly on "the edge."

Obvs, I was. I talked about gentrifying vaginas and how I don't want children. Clearly he was ready for me.

Turned out I'd just gotten myself on the set of Revenge of the Nerds VII: Half-Baked Nerds With Children. It was me and four stoned dudes sitting in a smoky room and shooting the shit. The co-host was this middle-aged black dude--I'd call him the Robin to the producer's Howard Stern, but he was nowhere near as classy as Robin. The entire time he made sexual comments about me and it just got gross--especially when we weren't on the air. For example, when I was alerted to the potential lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, he responded with:

"Girl, if you need help wipin' yo' ass, just let me know. My tongue has been all kinds of places."

Was that supposed to turn me on or clue me in to his mouth syphillis?

It definitely got "to catch a predator-y"and I wished I'd had Chris Hansen in my phonebook. Instead, I had to alert my elite gay visionary:

If you don't hear from me by 6:05pm PST, call the po-po. I've been sex trafficked.

You can listen to the madness here.

There was a call-in number, but it seems the only people who called were friends of the show. One of whom was an elderly woman named "Sweet Gail," who kept saying that she wanted to "be exploited."

I saw a photo of Sweet Gail which showed her in a home-made Viking-style helmet and a brassiere, onto which she'd sewn bullseyes.

Clearly, she's on her way to living her dream.

It's a two-hour show, but if you get to about halfway, Sweet Gail will blow your mind.

I will have a YouTube clip of my set as soon as Windows Movie Maker stops being lame. I mean, is it too much for a blacktress to add a fade in and a fade out? I'm a fucking professional!

Miss you guys! I will be back much, much sooner to share the brilliant writing of Charlaine Harris (creator of the novels on which "True Blood" is based) as well as my treatise on why everyone should go to Pennsylvania to find a monogamous man.

LYLAS!

-Blacktress

*Speaking of, I'm designing a new line of clothing:

What do you think?

Overheard in Bank of America

"So then he left and was just like, 'I gotta go.' Then later I texted him, 'How's packing going?' He writes back, 'It sucks. I'm loading the car now.' Then I wrote, 'I had fun last night.' And he wrote, 'Yeah. Let's get together Friday night.' So, like, he wants to see me, you know? He wouldn't have said 'Let's get together, you know?'

Steve? You mean Steve my real estate agent? He wouldn't say anything.

No, he knows Glen. He knows the situation.

Steve said he texted him and he said it was 'hot, drunk sex,' so, he must have liked it, you know?

Ugh, this thing is not taking my card.

I don't know. What?

We didn't go to breakfast the next morning, but I was so dead asleep, he said he couldn't even wake me.

It's weird.

I don't know.

But, like, we've done this before, you know? He wouldn't keep coming home with me if he wasn't into it, you know?

I just--"

As much as I wanted to hear the end of this story, I had to get back to the plantation. But seriously, I was riveted. There was so much I needed to know, such as....

• How can you be talking about your 'hot drunk sex' all up in the bank with your outside voice on a cell phone?
• Your real estate agent is getting you dudes? Would that make him your pimp?
• Why are you tripping over a dude named Glen?

I am a Funny Female!

Which I hope you already know. But, like, this is for real, guys! I’m not just funny in my head or on the internet—I have been deemed funny and added to a roster that includes the dopest lady comics in the country!!!!

I'm the first one on Friday at 8pm, and second on Saturday!

Tomorrow afternoon I head for San Francisco and I must say, I am nervous as all get-out. What began as California Dreams have become California nightmares. What if the crowd has no California Love for me? What if the California “Gurls” spew whipped cream from their boobies whenever they don’t like one of my punchlines? Will I ever want to go Back, Back to Cali, Cali?

I just have no idea what I’m in for—I just found out two days ago that the current high temp in SF is 62 degrees, and my mind is officially blown. There is no certainty in this life; all bets are fucking OFF. If I can’t even count on some semblance of summer weather, how can I make any assumptions about the audience? Will the crowd be full of supportive gays or crunchy hippies? What about people who aren’t stereotypes??? I won’t even know how to cope!

My whole bit about not wanting children better not get me boo’d off stage.

I’ve been hitting open mics over the last couple weeks, but I haven’t had a booked show in a while. Plus, I don’t even know what the venue’s going to be like. Is the stage wide or narrow, deep or shallow? How bright are the lights—are we talking ‘get out of the light, Carol Ann’ type of bright or an ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ type of spotlight? I was all set to wear cute dresses on stage, but now that it’s gonna be about 50 degrees by showtime, I’ve gotta find something that’s both cute and warm—The shows are being filmed, streamed, and circulated—and I’ve got some new folks to meet!

Yesterday I got an email from a graduate student from an SF university, asking if she could interview me for her dissertation. I kid you not, gentle readers. I have been found and sought out for my blackting and comedy skillz. Hours before that request, I got a (far less sketchy) facebook message from a comic who said he saw me on the internets and “Just wanted to let you know that I am a big fan of your work. I would love to be added as one of your friends.”
A FAN OF MY WORK? If this is a sketchy spambot, I’ll take it!

Now that I officially have fans, I’ve got to buck up. I can’t let them down with a sub-par performance. The PhD student must devote at least a full chapter of her dissertation to the history of Sojourner ‘You Can’t Handle the’ Truth.

I’ve gotta find a way to fit chunky sweaters into my carry-on suitcase! I’ve gotta hope that Delta Airlines doesn’t do me dirty again, and hasn’t taken a page from the American Airlines handbook of fuckery.

I’ve gotta hope that I can get my hair did bright and early tomorrow and make it to JFK by 1pm.

I’m taking a lot of risks, and to top it off, I’ve been writing like a demon for the 25th anniversary issue of my magazine, which ships next week. Sure, I could have not decided to do a show across the country a week before my press date. But then I would have cut a bitch. I can’t let these artists stop me from having dreams, y'all—especially not my California Dreams.

Wish me luck!

A Win. A Loss. A Random.

*****[This post was supposed to publish on Friday, but apparently I clicked 'Draft' and not 'Publish'--whoops! I guess I've been getting too wrapped up in Shark Week.]*****

Happy Friday, friends! Over the last couple days a lot has gone on in the world of the young, gifted, and black woman—and like I always say, Ain't I a Woman?


Let’s start with the good news.

Two female African American police officers have made history by becoming the first top cops to command a city precinct.

Deputy Inspector Juanita Holmes and Capt. Vanessa Kight are now the top cops at Brooklyn’s 81st Precinct in Bedford-Stuyvestant.

YAY!!! Talk about some strong black women! DI Holmes has already been with the precinct 27 years. Apparently, she's not getting too old for this shit!

Now, for the sad news:

A Black High School Student in Arkansas Can't Be Valedictorian Because...SHE'S BLACK.

For reals, y'all.

Kymberly Wimberly, 18, got only a single B in her 4 years at McGehee Secondary School, and loaded up on Honors and Advanced Placement classes. She had the highest GPA in her class, but was forced to share the honor of valedictorian with a white student with a lower GPA. She and her lawyer argue that the school's refusal to let her be sole valedictorian was part of a pattern of discrimination against black students.

Wimberly's mother, the school's "certified media specialist," says in the federal discrimination complaint that after her daughter had been told she would be valedictorian, she heard "in the copy room that same day, other school personnel express concern that Wimberly's status as valedictorian might cause a 'big mess.'"

There are a number of things wrong with this picture, but only one that makes people giggle over and over again: the girl’s name.

Because yes, you read it right—her name is KYMBERLY WIMBERLY. (#WhyBlackPeopleCan'tHaveNiceThings)

Before you start calling me a discredit to the race, let me be clear: the real tragedy is the blatant racism and discrimination that is preventing a young, gifted, and black woman from receiving hard-earned honors. She's also a teen mom, which shows that she's driven, dedicated, and won't let a baby hold her back. She's a role model!!!! Denying Kym Wim of the chance to stand before her school after years of hard work and share her experience, strength, and hope tells black children everywhere that there's no point in trying. (#NoWeCan't)

But why on earth did her mom name her Kymberly Wimberly? How much did THAT have to do with people's ability to accept her as sole valedictorian? You're already on thin ice by making a life in the home of the Little Rock Nine--why not at least give your daughter a fighting chance with a non-rhyming name? Mama Wimberly wasn't even allowed to bring her grievance to the PTA meeting, which you know ain't right. But if you came into my PTA meeting and I knew you'd named your child Kymberly Wimberly, I probably wouldn’t let you speak, either. Your judgment would be questioned at every turn.

And now the case is all over the internets, and the most common comments are:

Her mother should be sued for naming her daughter Kymberly Wimberly.

Kymberly Wimberly, what a great name! Hope she runs for president one day.

That's screwed up and all, but what kind of name is Kymberly Wimberly?
Reply: I think maybe that is why it would cause a "big mess". Everyone would think it's a joke.

Po' Kym Wim! She overcame Arkansas, teen motherhood, and poor parental judgment and still can't catch a break. (#WeShallOverCome,JustNotToday)

In other news......

I just got the most random FB msg ever. If this isn’t love in the digital age, I don’t know what is:

hi pretty baby how was your i hope every thing is fine,i am passing by i saw your pics and how beautiful it is,and i want to appreciate your beauty. my name is Thomas brown i am honest,kindly and lovely man ,baby i am single in my palace,baby u are the true vine,and Ur love is the vine dresser ,u are the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys, to chat with me thomasbrown2014luv@yahoo.com, i will be waiting for reply bye

This guy clearly wants to give me the herp and steal my identity. What is a "true vine" and a "vine dresser"?

How I'll Meet My Lover

Hey friends!

I've been hemming and hawing about what to blog about this week, fearful that I'd end up sued for libel and/or dumped on the streets of Harlem. I realize that the only fair game is celebrities and myself, as well as anyone who won't assume the worst of me. With that, I must share this juicy bit of info I got from a comedy-club booker just moments ago.

Neil Patrick Harris—or, as I like to call him, Heterosexuality's Greatest Loss—lives in Harlem.

Yes, y'all! NPH/HGL was one of our earliest gentrifiers. I knew we had a connection that extended beyond my brain’s fantasyworld.
(Note to self: I'll have to write him a letter and thank him for bringing black folks brunch.)

How did I get this info, you ask? Well, the booker called me about a showcase his club is doing for an NBC casting person. We got to chatting a bit and discovered we lived in the same neighborhood. My response:
“Oh, you’re one of the ones who jacked up our prices!”
Booker: Yup. I’ve been here about 10 years. Doogie Howser is here, too.
Me: Wait, what? SHUT UP. NPH lives in your building?
Booker: Huh?
Me: Neil. Patrick. Harris.
Booker: Yeah.
Me: You are my new best friend. I hope you don’t mind if I stalk you now.

He then goes on to tell me that, although NPH/HGL has a hip pad downtown, he uses his Harlem apartment “as a homebase.” When he was hosting the Tony Awards this year, he had the extended fam staying there, away from the limelight and the paps!

Apparently, he’s lived uptown since his post-Doogie days. Guys, what if NPH was right behind me in line at the Uptown Juice Bar? What if he also bought quarter waters at the bodega?* What if he, too, used to enjoyed a good Jamaican beef patty after a long day? And, most important—has he been to the iHop that opened on 135th street?????

I’ve always felt a kinship with him—like Dr. Howser, I enjoy unwinding at the end of a long day with a good ol’ recap on my computer. Like Barney Stinson, I have a slutty history and daddy issues. And, as a host, NPH and I will go to any length’s to wow the crowd—including rapping.

He did this with zero preparation. It was written on the spot after all the winners were announced. The man is a true professional.

I’m sure I’ve already blogged about my goal to become NPH’s au pair, so I won’t bother outlining that fantasy again. But guys, the fact that NPH is regularly within a mile of me brings me one step closer to achieving my dream! Can you imagine me with the twins?!

Photo courtesy JJSiii

I don’t know how I’ll make this happen. I’m thinking my best bet is through his partner, as he can likely travel incognito and just walks around the neighborhood. I am willing to take my time to befriend him, as it will allow me to know NPH through his lifemate. When we finally meet—hopefully at a bourgie Harlem restaurant offering “Haute Soul Cuisine” or some crap—it will be like we’ve know each other all our lives. The babies will reach for me as if they already know I’m the Corinna Corinna to their Molly Singer.

The whole fam will come to my stand-up shows, and I’ll have to make sure my friends don’t embarrass me in front of NPH, but he’ll be so cool and down to earth, it won’t even be a big deal. We’ll regularly “do brunch” and they’ll call me when the twins are finicky and they don’t know what to do. I bet they’ll even start celebrating Kwanzaa!!!

A gal can dream, right?

Oh, and by the way—I got a slot on the showcase. Hopefully you’ll get to see Blacktress on 30 Rock -- It's about time Tracy Morgan got some competition.


*If you understand this reference, I heart you. Please come to my aid the next time my negrosity is questioned.

Brokeback Blacktress!

Emphasis on the BACK!

I swear, I'm not trying to be the blacktress who cried wolf. All weekend, I've just been struggling. I just can't fight the urge to blog. I think I finally get Jack Twist's struggle, as I, too, wish I knew how to quit you!
And by 'you,' I mean 'internet-fueled narcissism.'

I just can't not tell my truths. I feel like the little boy at the end of Shane.



Only, instead of screaming "Shane, come back!" I'm yelling, "Blog!!!!!"


After an empowering talk with my therapist, I realized that silencing my voice isn't the answer. Although there was a fallout from the last post (and, surprisingly enough, it had nothing to do with my mom's words), most of the folks who can handle my truth got where I was coming from. I can't let misinterpretations freak me out. BUT....

I can't just call myself "You Can't Handle the Truth" and then get all butt-hurt when people can't, in fact, handle the truth. I've gotta own it. So, with that, I will keep my emotions reigned in and try not to bring up anything hurtful to people I care about. I was advised to start a separate, password-protected blog where I can pour out my feelings, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to do--I'm not some 14-year-old in 1995 with a LiveJournal. There will be no emo poetry here. There will, on occassion, be a touch of emotion, but my tone will be much clearer in the future-- let's see if it's not too boring.

Don't give up on me, gentle readers! I promise I'll keep bringing the fun and fresh, and I urge all those with an issue to leave a comment so that I can clarify things before relationships get ruined! It's the only way to keep love alive!

Okay, back to pretending to work. I'll have a real post soon--after all, Amy Winehouse would have wanted it that way.