Blacktresses & The Blues

**I started writing this post on Friday. Today is Tuesday. That should give you a sense of where I'm at.**

Guys, I am so dead tired. Don’t you ever wake up and have one of those days where it’s like, “Yeah, I could totally kill myself right now and it wouldn’t even be a big deal.”?

No? Just me? Well, anyway, that’s where I’m at.

I hung out with my mom last night and, as always, it was a mixed bag—a dash of hope, humbling gratitude, a bit of self-loathing, gut-wrenching frustration, and a feeling of powerlessness that makes a gal eat bread pudding for breakfast—natch. We had dinner with my voice over coach and it was straight out of Waiting to Exhale. They got along swimmingly, which I’d expected, but also banded together to point out several of my shortcomings.

You know, like how I don’t “invest in myself.”
And how I “dress like someone who doesn’t care.”
And how I “don’t focus on what really matters”
Oh yeah—and how I need to purchase some really good wigs and hair pieces if I want to be seen as a professional on stage and in auditions.

I feel like a character in a Carson McCullers novel.

Of course, it always helps to keep it in perspective. After all, I could be little Paisley here:

When questioned, her mother didn’t really get all the hoopla. “Well, at this pageant there was an option to do celebrity-wear,” the mom said. “And we thought about what we could wear with her being a brunette, and Julia Roberts is my favorite actress of all time. I thought it was real cute to do Julia. She’s 3. If she was 10 I never would have considered this. But as young as she is I thought it was very comical.”

With that in mind, I’m trying to shake off mom’s words, but the timing couldn’t really be worse—this Sunday is round 1 of NBC’s StandUp for Diversity auditions, where oppressed comics can finally get their reparations.

Last year, I didn’t even make it past the first round.
I was beaten by an 11-year-old boy with braces and rubber bands who talked about putting vodka in his cereal.

Needless to say, I’m nervous. And I only have 60 seconds to prove myself. If I win them over, I get to go on to the second round, which allows me 2 whole minutes to bring the pain. If I pass that I get to be on the showcase the following night.

I know, I mustn’t count my chickens. But it could be fun.
If only I could find a way to be hilarious in 60 seconds and stop thinking about how my natural hair makes me look like, “Whoopi Goldberg, not caring, wearing a moo-moo.”

I'm gonna go get a pedicure and re-watch "Good Hair."

Blacktress out!

Seriously, Guys, Never Forget.

Today, 9/12/2011, marks the five-year anniversary of Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds.

In the interim, he has attempted to establish himself as a real actor, and although Alpha Dog was certainly no Crossroads, I'd like him to remember which side his bread is buttered...on.

After a true day of remembrance, we must NEVER FORGET that the man has one of the finest falsettos since Minnie Riperton and dance moves that put Bieber to shame.

Justin, lovin' you is easy cause YOU SING AND DANCE.

Look, Justin, I know the death of Michael Jackson must have been hard--it was a dark time for all of us. Perhaps you just felt like the pressure was really on once your idol was RIP. But you mustn't hide your rhythmic light under a bushel. You owe it to us to do what you're good at--singing and dancing.

Justin, you need to dance like EVERYBODY is watching. Because we are. We are watching and waiting for you to stop pretending you invented Napster. You brought sexy back but it went away again. FIND IT, JUSTIN. FIND IT AND BRING IT TO ME.

To strengthen my plea, I'd like to show a video released last week that I have been dying to post. Although it may seem like I'm behind the times, one of my friends featured in the video sent it to me the moment it hit the information superhighway. I wanted to wait until the day of remembrance to post it. If you haven't seen it, enjoy.

Justin, if you're reading and watching, please hear this humble plea. Don't hold it against them for using one black person for a nano-second. Their intentions are true.

You Can Find Me in Da (Country) Club

*******Breaking Blacktress News******

October 22, I’ll be heading to New Hampshire to do a show with 5 Funny Females--and I’ll be making more money than I’ll have to spend getting there!

I'll also have a 20-minute set--plenty of time to do my best blackting and comedic stylings. It's very exciting but also a touch nerve-wracking—the show is in New Hampshire, y’all. At a country club.

Yes, a country club.

You know a blacktress gets uneasy when traveling through the Caucasian countryside, but when I’m on a veritable Northern plantation—and so recently after the release of The Help, no less—it becomes even more touch and go. What if they force me to teach them what it means to really love, or how to sing with emotion? I immediately reached out to the other NYC comic who's booked, asking if we could carpool. She's from Boston and knows how to traverse these lands. (I've found that, when traveling into unknown parts of Caucasia, it helps to bring your own blondtourage to help with translation and such.)

The lineup includes a lesbian, an Asian woman, and a blacktress, so I’m not exactly expecting the RNC, but seeing as it’s at a country club and people are spending $55 for dinner and a show, I can’t really count my chickens.

I should probably keep a lid on the whole “gentrifying the vag” thing, though.

This is really good news after the start to a rough week. Tuesday I went to the dentist for a cleaning, only to find out that I have not one, not two, but four cavities!!! And this, after the hygienist tells me the cost of my cleaning and exam is double what they said it was (she got her facts wrong). WTF?!

I floss diligently—even in a blackout! (I’ve seen evidence of my strict oral hygiene the next morning, floss strewn about like yarn ravaged by kittens.) How did this happen?

I guess trying to dodge orthodontic bills by making my retainer out of Laffy Taffy wasn’t as smart as I thought.

The cavities themselves don’t stress me out as much as the cost of them. The doc says it’ll be $200 - $300 for each filling.
Remember how last week I was depressed about not being able to fund my dreams? Well, now, I can’t even fund my own oral health!

The only way I can swing this is to do one filling per month until I’m all done.
Y’all, I am basically putting my teeth on layaway!

Um, did I or did I not get a degree? Do I or do I not direct the editorial for a national magazine? (ok, it’s probably only read by 12 people, but still—you can find it in any bookstore that hasn’t gone bankrupt!)
HOW CAN I NOT AFFORD MY TEETH????

Add to this the bills from my near-terminal-illness, and I’m actually going to have to file Chapter 11. Or, like, Chapter 9—close to bankruptcy, but not quite.

Okay, I know I’m, like, 40 years behind, but what the hell is the point of insurance? I don’t think I should have to pay for any services unless they find and treat whatever it is ails me. I mean, if I get into your radioactive tube and you don’t find anything, then why should I give you half my paycheck? If I get in your radioactive tube and you find cancer or a tumor and can’t actually cure me, why should my surviving relatives pay you? I mean, clearly, you’ve failed them. It’s just like camping—why go outside and pretend to be poor? United Healthcare, why must I pay you for: (1) making me think I’m going to die; (2) accepting a doctor’s suggestion that she do a minimally invasive and simple test [that actually costs hundreds of dollars.]; (3) telling me that I’m actually in good health, or in a state that no one can really do anything about? It seems that I’m right where I left off, only with a damn neti pot and some supplements.

Ok, that’s enough from me. The money from this gig can go to half a filling!
How are you guys? Leave a comment with a word or phrase, and I’ll use it to write today’s sketch—seriously!

It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure blog!

Hey guys,

So, inspired by the one comment and several gchat messages, I have fleshed out the Chris Hansen sketch. I think it captures Hansen's essence--what do you think?

"A Lunch Date With Chris Hansen"

[NATE--a 40-something man who looks like a middle-school chemistry teacher in the 1980s--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. He sends a text on his phone and closes it.

A YOUNG FEMALE SERVER approaches. She wears her hair in a ponytail and is all smiles.]

Waitress: Hello, sir, how are you this afternoon? Can I get you anything to drink while you’re... waiting for someone?
Nate: Yes, I'm meeting a friend. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I by any chance interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [offstage]: I'll be right out! I just have to change first!
Nate: What?

[CHRIS HANSEN enters, in his signature button-down-and-blazer combo. He holds several sheets of paper in his hand. NATE rises to greet him.]

Nate: Hey Chris. Long time, no see, huh? [He leans in to give him a hug.]
Chris [stiff]: Hey there, good to see you.
Nate: Sit down, man--you're making me anxious. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes…I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, are you fucking serious?
Chris [reading in his wonderful staccato]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s around 1ish on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?

Nate: Um…that I wanted to get together.
Chris: So when I wrote back, "Great." what did you think I meant by that?
Nate: That it was great?
Chris: Did you or did you not just send me a text message moments ago, saying, "I'm starved. Are you stuck in traffic?"
Nate: Yes
Chris: Are you always this demanding with your lunch companions?
Nate: I wouldn't call it "demanding," but no, I'm not--
Chris: So, this is the first time? I find that a bit hard to believe.
[Nate says nothing.]
Chris: Did you know think you were communicating with a 14-year-old girl?
Nate: No! I have limited time for lunch, and I wanted to make sure we were on, that's all.

[Cut to CHRIS HANSEN IN THE 'DATELINE' STUDIO, surrounded by television screens. He looks at an unknown person.]

Chris: Here's this adult male...I mean, he's nearly 50 years old. And he's texting me. To "hurry up" when I haven’t seen him in six years. Six years. A chance encounter. At a reunion. And he's nagging me. As though he's entitled to me. That’s just inappropriate, any way you look at it.

[Cut back to the restaurant interior.]

Chris: one-ish.
Nate: Yeah--
Chris: one-ish.
Nate: Yes.
Chris: You will agree that "one-ish" was the predetermined time?
Nate: Yes.
Chris: You want to try again?
Nate: What? What do you mean, 'try again?' I said yes.
Chris: Well, I have the transcript right here.
Nate: Jesus Christ, Hansen! Chill out, you're off the clock!
Chris: This morning, at 9:07 am, I wrote, "I'll be running a bit late. Let's make it 1:30 just to be safe."
Nate: What are you talking about? I never got an email.
Chris: You sure?
Nate: Yes
Chris: You want to try again?

[Nate pulls out his smartphone, scrolling furiously through his email. He hands it to Chris Hansen.]

Nate: Look for yourself. Go ahead, check the trash folder. You didn't send it.

[Chris Hansen looks through the phone. He takes out his own phone and scrolls through it. He shows a flicker of embarrassment.]

Chris: It would seem that the message I thought I'd sent was actually simply a draft.

[Cut back to CHRIS HANSEN IN THE 'DATELINE' STUDIO, surrounded by television screens. He looks at an unknown person.]

Chris: Sometimes, you just can't catch 'em all. But we're not going to let that stop us at "Dateline."

National Sketch/Blog/Monologue Writing Month-- Or, as I like to call it, Time to Get It Together

Happy Tuesday!

God, isn’t it great when you don’t have to be on the plantation five whole days?

I don’t even know what to blog about. My head’s in a fog and I’m waiting for my coffee to take effect. I think what I’ll do is share some of my works in progress.

So, September is National Sketch Writing Month, which challenges the gifted-yet-unmotivated to write 30 sketches in 30 days. I’m not really a sketch writer, but I've decided to co-opt this idea in order to start writing that solo show I’ve been talking about—and get back on track with the blog posts.
Unfortunately, today is the 6th and I’ve only written one sketch, which doesn’t bode well for my attempts to live my dreams, but I’m not gonna give up yet!

Here are some of the ideas I’m working on. Let me know your thoughts. Whatever gets the most positive response will be tomorrow’s post.

The Sista Wife
Logline: Regine marries into a polygamist family and teaches her fellow sister wives how to be strong black women. (already in progress)

Sad Girl Goes to Prom
Logline: We see Sad Girl standing in front of her mirror, giving herself a pep talk before heading out to her high school prom without a date.

The Dead of Night
Logline: We see what would have happened to Bella Swan if she and Edward had broken up or if she’d just aged like a regular human.

MoveOn.org
Logline: A lone woman shows up to a MoveOn.org rally and gets the address wrong. No one’s there and she loses her mind. “Why does no one like me???”

Chris Hansen in His Daily Life
Logline: We see Chris Hansen meeting up with a friend for lunch. He shows up late and follows the same protocol as he would if he were catching a predator.

For example:
[Nate--40-something, kinda overweight White guy--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. A young female waiter approaches.]

Waitress: Hello. Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting?
Nate: Um, sure. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [off stage]: I'll be right out. I'm just going to change.
Nate: What?
[Chris Hansen enters.]
Nate: Hey Chris. [He rises to give Chris a hug.]
Chris [stiffens, not wanting to be touched.]: Hello. Are you ready to eat?
Nate: Sure—just gotta get the menus first. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes….I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, come on.
Chris [reading]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s at 1pm on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?
Nate: Um….that I wanted to get together.

And so on and so forth…

Hope you had a good weekend!

xoxo,

Blacktress!

What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

Strappin' in for the Weekend

Guys, there's a hurricane a-coming to New York City.
We had an earthquake about three days ago.
Um, WTF, End of Days? Can you please not come until I've had a chance to live my dreams?

I hope it's just a thunderstorm, and not the dramatic hurricane their expecting. I mean, her name is Irene, for goodness sake--nothing named Irene should be dangerous.

[Imagine me as a 55-year-old secretary when you read this next sentence.] Besides, the only hurricane I want is Denzel! [insert a pursing of the lips and a snap.]

As I prepare to tuck in for what's sure to be "THE STORM OF THE CENTURY," I realize how useless I am in an emergency. I mean, this is nothing new, but it became even more apparent after visiting the VT and then reading The Hunger Games this week. But now, in the face of a real situation of the non-Jersey variety, I realize I'm as useless as a taco in a toolkit.^

According to NY1 News, I need to pack a "go bag". All I know about "go bags" are that the FBI agents on Criminal Minds always have one ready before boarding the plane to the next serial-killer case.
I don't have a gun or badge, so what would my go bad contain besides underwear and a safety condom?

As I try to write a grocery list of edible foods I won't have to cook or refrigerate*, I hear the wise words of my 95-year-old G-Unit, said before what was certain to be the Y2K meltdown:

In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo ass.

Let me give a bit of context:
Grandma has an entire linen closet filled with toilet paper--except on the floor of the closet, where she has jugs of water.
When I asked her why she had all this, she replied matter-of-factly with, "Thems my rations."

Okay.

Water, I get. But all that tp? Unless you're some sort of macGuyver, you really won't need that many thin squares of tissue during an apocalypse.

Unless you're G-Unit.

Maybe I should go load up on Charmin--I mean, the woman has lasted 95 years on this earth, so she must know something. (Plus, those cartoon bears are so cute!). What about Smart Water? I mean, if the world's going to turn into Thunderdome, I want whatever the ageless Jennifer Aniston's been drinking. That one's got the hips of a 14-year-old Korean gymnast!

Ugh, I wish I was Katniss Everdeen. I'm gonna try to make a shiv out of a plastic spoon in the next hour.

I need survival skills. Is there a way to do, like, a SIMS version of Outward Bound?

^I've decided to try on the character of elderly southern farmer. This is one of my new folksy sayings.

*so far, all I got is:

• Wheat Thins
• apples
• dry cereal
• English muffins
• tea (not a food)
• chips and salsa?
• fruit leather
• peanut butter
• craisins