The Legend of Blacktress Vance

Oh good god--I've been away from the blogsphere for a little over a week and Google's found another way to change it up. I logged in and don't even recognize the dashboard or the "new post" page. If this ends up being entirely in Wingdings, my apologies.
Of course, if it's in Wingdings, you won't even know I apologized.

Guys, it has been a c-c-c-Cau-CRAZY week! On the 19th, Jewboo and I signed a lease on an apartment in Harlem, taking our realationship to the next level and gentrifying 7th avenue, which is one of the last holdouts of--I want to gag--the area the realtors have dubbed SoHa (South Harlem). Basically, we decided to challenge Bill Clinton. Bill, I see your office building and raise you an interracial, interfaith couple with a pet that is struggling to manage his obesity.

We are the new face on Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.

Speaking of being a new face (nailed it!): Last week I had two evening work events that really showed how far we haven't come. I went to both with my boss, who is even more cray when you have to deal with him one on one. Thursday night I was basically the Bagger Vance to his [Whatever Matt Damon's character's name was]--only without the moral lessons and new-found mutual respect. We were at an event where I was the only brown person not holding a tray and the average age of the attendees was 70. It was "old money" personified. There was one dude there who was 101 years old. Y'all, he was in a wheelchair being pushed by a slightly younger although equally geriatric woman (who was referred to as "the second wife that everyone calls a gold digger"), and I swear to you that at one point she wheeled him toward a wall and the panel opened and he was ushered inside.

Um, WTF?! Is he a hobbit?? Or perhaps a crypt keeper? Or was he part of a secret society of influential white males who have been granted eternal life???

Needless to say, I was out of my element.

After all my time inside Caucasia, though, I'm totally content to stand around and not talk to anyone while still looking approachable. However, I found it rather awkward when people I've met--and even written about--repeatedly didn't acknowledge my presence. I was getting Zen about it when two men approached my boss to chat. My boss introduced me to them and I jogged one of the guy's memory. The other didn't look at me. My boss then comments on the two men's colorful ties and makes a big production of saying that they're FIERCE! "We should just put you two at the door and you can blind everyone!" he said.
Then, the dude who doesn't acknowledge me points his thumb in my direction and goes, "With this one, we've got the whole rainbow!"My thoughts came in this order?
1. "This one"? Oh, so you can see me and have just chosen to say nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?
2. Wait, does he mean....?
3. No, that can't be--that's not even funny, even if he was trying to make a joke.
4. I'm wearing a cream-colored dress and a black sweater, so he can't have been referring to my clothing. He had to have been referring to the color of my skin and not the content of my character.

I bet he'd be terrified walking the streets of SoHa. God, I hate people.

I really would have had a better ending to this (complete with how the man "graciously" invited me to his Connecticut home as though I was a baby Zahara.) but I came back to this post about 8 hours after I started it and now I'm sucked into the maelstrom that is the Ikea website.

I heart you. Bear with me--we'll be out of this madness soon and I'll be bLack!
xoxo,
blacktress!

This is Getting Ri-Goddamn-diculous!

Hey friends,

I arrived on the plantation today to find many emails in my inbox. Other than the usual Groupons and SPAM, there were emails from random "brokers" and "apartment owners" on craigslist asking for way too much information before setting up an appt to view an apartment. That's not the point of this post, though.

At the very top of my inbox was an email--nay, I'll call it an ALERT--from Scribe about the latest happenings inside Caucasia. It included a link to the following news item:

Look at all their smiles.....I feel like this is a nightmare from Kunta Kinte's Book of Dreams.*^

Her email was titled, "some cray from CauCRAYsia"--certainly an understatement.
For the full story, click here.

Less than six months ago I came to you with news about Sweden's racism. It pains me to be repeating myself, but I can't hide this racist light under a bullshit bushel. Guys, this is the minister of culture shown here.

In an attempt to get more information, I've been reading comments about the article. No, not because commenters are geniuses--or even articulate--but because I want to get a sense of how this is being received in the country in which it took place. Here are some interesting nuggets:

Wanggren writes:
Liljeroth is a member of MODERATERNA, the Swedish conservative party, not 'the left'. She's pretty much the opposite of 'the left' in all possible ways. It is currently the conservatives who are in majority in the Swedish government.

LiberalenDieter says:
The true racists are those who care about the skincolor of the cake. If you aren't a racist and sexist, you just see human beeings and don't care about skin color or gender.

An American gal (and likely liberal-arts-college graduate) speaks truth to power:

The reason why this is something to complain about is because of how historically marginalized peoples have been negatively portrayed in the media as comical and savage subhumans. The minstrel figure has long been utilized to degrade certain groups of people. Also, as a woman, she should understand what a degrading, oppressive, and misogynistic practice genital mutilation is, and thus, she should be ashamed for making light of such an atrocity against women's rights.

To which a Scandinavian fella replied:

You are a brainwashed one, aren't you?

[Good lord. This one probably thinks that slavery and the Holocaust never really happened and is a huge Mel Gibson fan.]

Here's a particularly incendiary back-and-forth:

Another commenter writes:
Sensationalist rubbish. Seriously... Its an art day. Grow up. Talk about twisting a story to sensationalize it.

Um, I'm not clear on how the fact that this is part of "World Art Day" makes it less offensive and inappropriate. I mean, guys--a bunch of white people smiling over an African cake as they devour it just takes the idea of "consumption of the other" to a while new level. Regardless of intent, implications can't be denied. These are supposed to be a group of educated--and decision-making/policy-creating people. I refuse to believe that nobody on staff said something. I imagine it would have gone something like this:

[Anyone With a Brain taps higher-up's shoulder, interrupting a conversation between him and another person.]

Anyone With a Brain: Lise. Jorgen. Um, the World Art Day cake arrived a few minutes ago.
Lise: Great!
Jorgen: Wheel it out!
AWAB: I....don't think that's such a good idea.....I know this is meant to be a work of art, but I think that this is going to be bad publicity.
Lise and Jorgen: Why?
AWAB: It's a cake depicting an African woman--or some sort of traditional tribal statue.

Lise: Oh, that sounds so creative.

[A beat. AWAB wonders how to proceed.]

AWAB: The inside is red velvet.
Jorgen: I love red velvet cake!
AWAB: But don't you think it's a bit....gauche?
Lise: Well, is it masterfully executed?
AWAB: It is--which I think is part of what makes it so off--
Jorgen: Nonsense! I'm sure that, after submitting multiple budgets for this event, selecting an artist to create the cake and going over his plans before giving him the go-ahead to make it, the creation is completely in line with the event and the goals of our organization. In fact, I think it would be even more fitting if the minister of culture was the one to cut the first slice!

Lise: I love it! I'll make sure to get tons of media coverage.

[Anyone With a Brain slinks off, clearly uncomfortable.]

*now in paperback. Soon to be directed by Ed Burns.

^This is not a real thing.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE"

That's what popped up on my phone when I tried to check my email during breakfast this morning. Usually it just says "connection lost" or something equally generic--it's like it knows I'm a hot mess.

I've been off the grid because Jewboo and I have begun apartment hunting. This has meant that every waking hour is spent on the internet looking for a place to call home and then running to potential spots at a moment's notice. I'm trolling on craigslist with the frequency of a convicted sex offender and getting as disappointed as a fella who requests an Asian prostitute and ends up with a 60-year-old German lady.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE" is the best way to encapsulate my emotions over the last week and a half.

The whole process is soul-crushing. I just feel so inadequate and poor. Did you know that kitchens are a thing of the past? I mean, the appliances are still required, but one can longer expect to have any sort of surface for placing items, mincing meats, or juilenn-ing carrots. As I prepare to leave the finest accommodations I will ever know, I'm kinda depressed by the options available to me. I mean, why did I bother getting degrees expensive schools if I'd only be able to afford to live in a cardboard box?

Of course, there are options, but being in a realationship and all, we've got to do this thing called "compromise." As I understand it, it basically means we'll have to settle in favor of having each other and only hope that the resentment doesn't break us.

That's how love works, right?

I know I'm a brat, but because this blog is my safe space (where I am vulnerable to the comments and criticisms of others), I will tell my TRUTH: I have grown accustomed to a lifestyle in which I can do laundry at my leisure and only walk 2 minutes to the subway. And yes, my desire to live in Manhattan is a bit bourgie--but I swear, it's not my fault, it's genetic. I already told you guys how, when my mom was pregnant with me and living in Brooklyn she chose a doctor who worked in Harlem Hospital? Why did she do that? Because the hospital was top-notch. I was supposed to be born on December 24, but when my mom went in for a final check-up on December 7, she hopped off the examining table and her water broke--I was ready to break free.

Guys, even as a fetus I could sense that we were in Manhattan and I wanted to make it convenient for us. My connection with this convenient, narrow, subway-filled borough runs deep. (Plus, Lord knows it would have been a shit show trying to get a cab from BK to Harlem when your black and trying to do lamaze breathing!)

But I can't give up--if I let the negative thinking ruin me, I wouldn't have ever made it to freedom, you know?

As we struggle to find a place that works within our tiny budget, we also have to battle brokers, which are like evil gnomes who want nothing more than a pound of your flesh and 15% commission. I think our mutual hatred for them is what's keeping our love so strong as we attempt to traverse this heartless city. Honestly, the process is really bringing out the addict in me. Think about it:

Finding an apartment is basically a legal, drug-free way to get a high and then come crashing down with a hangover that can only come from absinthe and cocaine. Not that I've done that, mind you, but I've been around enough unsavory characters/rich private school kids to know how the process works. Basically, you spend all day trying to track down "the stuff" (going from listing to listing, making call after call). Most of the time, the weed you wanted turned out to be oregano and the cheap whiskey is watered down, so to speak. When you finally find "the goods," you've got the dealer breathing down your neck, repeatedly assuring you that "this is legit"--which you've learned means it's probably not (it's about attraction, not promotion in this drug game). You want to play it cool, but you've got a checkbook in your pocket and want to feel like you've accomplished something, so you get ready to hand over all your savings for a chance at a great high.

Just then, another dude comes up in need of a fix. Before you can even find your pen, he hands over all of his cash and the keys to his Bentley. You officially don't exist.

Cut to you squatting in a crack den, telling yourself this is just a one-time thing.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Am I really incapable of finding a clean, safe, centrally located place to live after nearly 30 years on earth and a full-time job at a place that's not McDonald's?

I mean, the answer is yes--at least on one of those counts. But to give up on dreams hurts, especially when I feel as though so many of my dreams are being deferred (the blackting, the voiceover, the day job).

I know this is a process and millions have gone through it and lived to tell the tale; I just didn't expect this kind of failure.

(See how I tied that back in there? NAILED IT!)

I may have frostbite--it was just THAT cold

Hey gang,

You have no idea how good it feels to be blogging again. I just got back from the D, which I haven't been to in over a year. As you know, when my mom and I go visit G-Unit, we must grapple with three generations of crazy, all with our own truths. This weekend was no exception and the only silver lining is that it was a mere 56 hours long. But it's amazing how, despite global warming, it's still so, so cold in the D. For those of you who still can't quite wrap your brain around what it is to be in the city that god forgot, let me share this internet vid. Not since T-Baby's magnum opus has the essence of the D been so eloquently captured.

I'm just glad that I don't have this guy's grandma!

The repeated requests for chili cheese, the support for Kwame Kilpatrick, the recollections of shooting various people--it's as spot-on as Stuff White Girls Say to Black Girls.

Some translations:

- "Run on Rose" means rose champagne--Moet. Apparently it's the balls.
- "snatch some carties" = steal some Cartier sunglasses
- Kwame Kilpatrick was the mayor of the D who was having an affair with his chief of staff--this was put out after he'd already been accused of corruption. That's why "he can't be textin bitches."

Clockin' 10,000 Hours, 5 Minutes at a Time (A WOMANifesto?)

I've done four mics in the last three days, which might be laughable to Louis CK, but has me really proud of myself. Even though I love sleep like a fat kid loves not being made fun of, I know that I won't get off the plantation if I don't start squirreling away food and necessities to prepare for my escape--metaphorically speaking.

But man, open mics and networking sucks. At the end of a boring day writing about pictures of fruit in bowls, the last thing I want to do is to spend up to 2 hours in a lame bar surrounded by poorly dressed, mildly autistic, self-loathing men who are all friends with each other just so I can spend 5 minutes holding a microphone in front of the aforementioned boys club. They're not exactly my target audience.

Any comic who's made it--and developed a sustainable career--has put in the time and continues to do so. But I find it so hard to "replenish the creative well," so to speak, when I'm just running from one thing to the next, grocery bags under the eyes like I'm shoppin' at Whole Foods, and not really engaging in the world. I'm half tempted to start drinking and hooking up with randos just for the material!

I jest. I think.

Gladwell says it's all about clockin' the hours. But if I've gotta wait to hit 10,000 one set at a time, I may not be an outlier until I'm 84 years old. And by then, we'll all be hairless pod people providing the life force for Apple's cyborgs, so no one will really care. (Do you think they'll have comedy clubs in the dystopian future? I feel like they'd all be 20-person bringers with a 12-drink minimum.)

I'm finding myself most fueled by collaboration with strong black women of every color. I'm not above open mics and all, but nowadays I think of my best stuff when sitting and talking one-on-one with a quick-witted gal pal. Since that's the opposite of soul-crushing, I think I'll continue to go that route and not judge myself if I don't hit an open mic.

Why am I discussing this? Well, I just got a link to an article from--you guessed it!--a Caucasian strong black woman that really reinforced some of these thoughts. In it, the author cites Molly Lambert's article "Can't Be Tamed: A Manifesto," where she says:

“Befriend The Other Woman… She is not the enemy. She is never your enemy. The enemy is always any guys who are creating situations that limit the number of females allowed. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down.”

I did a show at 11pm last night because the woman hosting it had a last-minute cancellation and thought of me. She thought of me because, despite my insecurity, when she sent an email blast saying she was running this show, I told her to keep me in mind for future slots that might open up (it's booked really far in advance).

And she did. And so, even though I wanted to go home and write, I showed up because I don't believe in turning down a gig. And I know that none of this is owed to me. And this gal who I'm convinced thinks I'm pathetic will never get a chance to prove me wrong if I don't let it go. She is not my enemy. Most of the time, I'm my own damn enemy and I've decided I'm done hatin' on me!

Hunger Pains Over The Hunger Games

Guys, it’s begun. Midnight last night, The Hunger Games premiered and my world was officially made whole. I am soooooo psyched, I don’t even know where to begin. I haven’t been this excited for a movie since Harry Potter IV! Jennifer Lawrence was the right choice for the lead. I mean, after Winter’s Bone— which was basically The Hunger Games set in meth country—we know that she can traverse a treacherous landscape for the good of her family.

And I only just found out that Stanley Tucci is in it!!!! Have I never mentioned my mild obsession with him? The man is perfect wherever he appears. I am so drawn to the Tucci, I want to touch his tushy!
Yes, I'm so excited that all these puns are swirling in my head:

Katniss is my catnip!

Shot through the heart / And you're to blame / You messed with Katniss / during The Hunger Games!!!!

This might be Lenny Kravitz' best move since making daughter Zoe.

My only hope is that the movie is 10 hours long and re-creates every single page of the book.

The Chosen People Have Chosen Me!!!

So, I don’t know how many of you received my March newsletter (email madblacktress[at]gmail.com if you wanna opt in!), but I mentioned a gig that was unlike any I’ve ever had. Of course, being nervous and stressed about it, I was trying to block it out and not speak of it—you know, like how I handle sweating in public. Saturday, March 17, I was scheduled to perform at a Jewish Community Center in York, Pennsylvania, just an hour away from where Jewboo’s parents live!

One of these things is not like the other.....

Clearly, someone had dropped out at the last minute—but I’m not quite sure why I was the natural sub. Never one to turn down a gig, I said yes and figured I’d work it out later. It was kinda exciting—although I was getting paid to do “20 minutes, clean material, but can be edgy,” and my lover’s parents would be in attendance!!! As you can imagine, I was freaking out. I mean, what does ‘edgy’ even mean? Can I just get a list of forbidden words? You know, like:

YOU CANNOT SAY

• F word
• S word
• C word
• Vagina / Vajay-jay
• P in V without a C
• “I can’t passover those matzohballs.”
• Niggerbollen
• Honky Lumps

YOU CAN SAY

• The other C word (cancer)
• The other C word (Caucasia)
• "Save the drama for Obama"
• Bitch, when used as a pronoun
• Wintercourse, when used as a biological term

I was equally stressed out being in a JCC. We all know that I’m down with the chosen but I’m learning that non-New York Jews are a different crowd. And, like the New Hampshire country club I attempted to entertain back in October, these folks were going to be out of my target demographic in terms of age and lifestyle choices. Would they know what Roots or a Tyler Perry production was? Would they be offended by the use of the term ‘Jewboo? I just wasn’t sure how I’d play it.

After consulting some of the top comedic Jewish minds I know, I reached the Zen place of not actually dealing with it. As Jewboo and I headed to PA, I started to get stressed. This was quickly eclipsed by a near-death experience.

So, turns out that I have allergy-induced asthma...which I discovered on Saturday, the morning before my JCC debut. #fml

Remember the magical impression I made on my first visit to Jewboo's family/a suburban PA emergency room?

Well, turns out it wasn't the lady meds--it's cat dander plus wall-to-wall carpeting.

After a night spent wheezing, we finally decided to suck it up and go to the urgent care center. Of course, being Pennsylvania and not NYC, I was in and out in just over an hour, complete with prescriptions to pick up!
Of course, fear of death trumps fear of death by stage, but once I passed that hurdle, I was back to freaking out, and waiting around the venue for over 90 minutes didn't help--until I went to the bathroom, that is.
After closing the stall door, my own face looked back at me!!!

Seeing one's own face in the most unexpected places (i.e. not a mirror) was mind-blowing!

I felt like Rihanna.

Clearly, they were ready for me, as they'd had to see my face numerous times over the last two weeks. I went up second, which gave me time to read the temperature of the room. They were quite fun, actually, and opener Gilad Foss killed them with his Israeli sense of Jewmor. I followed, and just sorta went in with my same old stuff. And turns out, they liked me--they really, really liked me!

After my set, everyone wanted to meet Jewboo (who had to repeatedly say his real name in an attempt to assert his identity), and the head of the JCC even cornered me in a wine-induced stupor and asked if I planned to convert to Judaism.
"Um, let's go over to the cake," I replied.
BYOB at a JCC = TMI!

The night was fun and it felt good to share that side of myself with the boo's parents. I was, however, wrecked from the previous night and ready to get to bed when we got home at 2am. (Keeping the parents out til all hours!) Unfortunately, steroids and the inhaler kept me hyped up like Jessie Spano before the big dance contest. I spent much of Sunday lying on the couch and returned to NYC with a mountain of laundry and much to do--you know, like prepare for an audition for 30 Rock on Monday.

Yep, that happened! I got an email Friday afternoon while en route to the PA JCC (perhaps I was already creating Chosen People karma before the gig began???). After the insanity of "Schmobbie Jones" (remember her?) I had to do a bunch of sleuthing to make sure I wasn't being lured into a dark alley. After all, how did they even know me? Where'd they get my contact info? How did they know I'd be right for the part?

Well, turns out those casting folks are good! Based on a set they saw me do at a club back in September, they called me in for a strong black woman whose one line is, "I handle conflict appropriately and I'm up-to-date on my mortgage payments!" YES!!! THAT IS SO ME!!!!

I was pretty psyched and was totally hepped up Sunday night--and still trying to get that whole "breathing" thing under control. A trip to the bathroom at 3:30am turned nearly deadly as I walked directly into the doorframe, clocking myself in the head. Any attempt at sleeping was abandoned, as I worked to ensure that I wouldn't end up with a giant lump on my head for 30 Rock.

I went into the audition in my Banana Republic dress and was about 10 years younger than the other women, which was a bit awk. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from Waiting to Exhale, especially because they all seemed to know each other. For reals, they were showing pictures of their babies, talking about their New Jersey homes that were minutes from one another, and generally being BFF. Clearly, there's an elite group of upwardly mobile blacktresses that function similarly to the Freemasons that I need to be a part of.

I must find my way in.

How are you?