OMG MRIs are OOC

Happy Wednesday!!!
I know hump day isn’t usually happy (unless you’re humpin!), but this is my last day in the office for over a week, and I’m on cloud 9. Well, maybe cloud 7, seeing as I’m running on 5.5 hours of sleep.

Who has two thumbs and is dumb enough to schedule an MRI at 10:30pm? THIS BLACKTRESS!!!

By the time I got to the Radiology lab, I was ready to go to bed. Add to that the fact that I was wearing the equivalent of winter pajamas, and I thought I was in for an HMO-sponsored nap. I was given a brochure with a list of satellite-radio stations I could choose to listen to during the test. Because I love directing anxiety toward fake problems instead of dealing with the issue at hand, I deliberated for about 10 minutes. One of the comedy stations might be good, since I’m a bit tense, I thought. But if I have to stay still, maybe I shouldn’t listen to something that’ll make me laugh. Show tunes could be fun, but it all depends on the show, and then I’ll be stuck listening to the soundtrack to South Pacific.

Southern Gospel station might be the way to go—if there was ever a time I needed to get He Who Cannot Be Named on my side, it’s now. But if I really just want to be relaxed, maybe the vocal trills and belts of a woman who owes her life to the lord won’t be the way to go.
I continued to create a mountain out of a non-existent structure.

Canadian News & Information—that’ll be pretty boring. Keep that as your safety station.

I finally settled on 2000’s Pop Hits and felt a bit calmer having made a decision.

When I was called down to the MRI area (I’m not sure what to call it. After half an hour of sitting in an empty waiting room that reminded me of The Malkovich, I was directed to an elevator by a wild-haired woman. It only went one flight below street level.) The night-shift radiologist was anything but pleasant. He was small and bored and didn’t even engage when I tried to crack a little jokey joke.

I don’t get how people who have chosen to enter a field in which they interact with sick and suffering humans think that it’s okay to have no personal skills. You’re dealing with people you’ll likely never see again at a time when they’re at their most vulnerable. If that’s not a call for compassion and warmth, I don’t know what is.

Okay, rant about human indecency is over.

I got into the pod and was told to “be completely still for 20 minutes.” He put a pair of big headphones that pressed right up against the part of my head that was hurting. Before I could wince, he caged me in and fired up the ol’ MRI.
“If you need something, kick your legs,” he said as he walked away.
Um…..

Don’t you want to know which radio station I’d like?????

Apparently, he’d already made the decision for me: house music remixed with sounds of a fire alarm and heat coming through rusty pipes.
It must have been some Euro-pop B-side. Wait, no—that was THE MACHINE.

I knew there’d be noises, but I had no idea they’d be so heinous. How can someone stay completely still when their ears are being bombarded with craziness? At worst, it sounded like the machine was breaking and about to cave in on me; at best, it sounded like I kept making the wrong choice on Family Feud or just stole something from a WalMart.

I probably won’t get the results until Monday. Til then, I’m going to go to a Midwestern wedding and try not to feel inferior to my fancy grown-up bride-to-be friend and the blondtourage I have somehow been invited to hang out with. I’ve gotten invited to drinks every night—and a couple of mornings—for the next 4 days. I really hope I don’t do a sober-girl cry in the bathroom—it’s just such bad form.

An MRI? WTF?! FML.

Hey gang,

Whew, it feels good to blog again! I know I just posted yesterday, but I’ve been in a 3-hour staff meeting that felt like an age. (But I didn’t want to gouge my eyes out—growth!) Not only were my boss and I not addressing each other the entire time, but I was also running on about 5 hours of sleep. I’ve got a lot of anxiety coming up—the usual blacktress drama, course—but I’m also dealing with some potential medical issues that have me a bit nervous.

As you know, I’ve been all over with the sinus troubles. Well, it seems that it's not normal for sinus pain to affect the neck and it's even less normal for a part of one's head that hasn't been hit or cut or otherwise traumatized to be painful to the touch.

I went to a doctor last night and it was a real hip, swanky place--all the receptionists looked like Urban Outfitter's models and the doctors were in cute Anthropologie outfits. I went in to see Dr. Ko, a cute Asian woman who was totes wearing invisalign. I explained my symptoms as she continued to look more and more puzzled. "Where's that Dr. House looking guy I saw in the waiting room? We need to get him in here." Luckily, she laughed and didn't think I was insulting her skills. "We call him that, too!" she said. "Yeah, he does specialize in complex cases." With no equipment in their hip office, she immediately referred me to a neurologist, not just giving me the info, but calling his office up and getting me in just 15 minutes later! The neurologist, a small Indian man with a touch of Asperger's and hair like Full House hottie Uncle Jesse, pressed his fingertips together a lot and pursed his lips.

"What do YOU think it is?" He asked.
"Is this some kind of trick question?"
"No. You'd know your body better than me."
I swear, what do these people get paid for?

He basically didn't know what was up, although he thinks I could have migraines. But the only way to rule everything out is to get an MRI. This is one mystery diagnosis.

How ironic. I’m becoming one of the very medical mysteries I love to watch on Discovery Fit & Health.

I'm now writing this in a flurry from my house, where I had to come back after work to change clothes before teh 10:30pm MRI. Apparently, even the underwire of my bra* will set off the machine, so I gotta rock a sports bra and ill-fitting sweatpants along with anything else metal-free that will keep me warm.

I liked how the "preparation list" featured--in 16-pt font, no less--the directive DO NOT WEAR MAKEUP IF SCANNING THE HEAD.

Oh yeah, cause I'm thinking about foundation and creating doe eyes at a time like this.

Wanted to just let you guys in on this cause you mean the world to me. Without you, I'm just a creepy, possibly racist narcissist with too much internet access.


*Victoria and I have a secret!!!

Back From the Rapture

Hey Guys,

How was your rapture? Mine was so-so. That Thursday Stony Point 40-minute gig I was so excited about got canceled on Tuesday, sending me into a shame/FML spiral of unprecedented proportions. I feel like I am not only doomed to be writing about paintings of fruit in bowls for the rest of my life, but I’ve let you down, my gentle readers—especially Dave, who was kind enough to do a little Wiki-ing for me.

This weekend was an emotional rollercoaster, starting off with a fight with the massa at 3:30pm on Friday. It was definitely a Roots moment, with me refusing to go by the name Toby and him refusing to let it go—metaphorically speaking, of course. I should have known better than to give a former drag queen “the hand” (my attempt at getting a word in edgewise), but we all make our beds and have to lay in them. I found myself completely wrecked until 8pm the next day, when I headed off to do a set at a show in Queens.

I was actually quite nervous beforehand, for a couple of reasons. First of all, it was in someone’s apartment (which we all know can be a hot mess) and every single audience member could be seen plain as day. As any performer knows, the ability to see the audience rolling their eyes, checking their phones, or simply bored or confused can shake even the most professional blacktress or WHactress. Of course, once Sojo takes the stage, most audiences snap right to attention, but the crowd was also unknown, and I had no idea what they were into. I walked in to a sea of Caucasians, many of whom were heavily tattooed. Was I in Stony Point after all? I wondered. I’d been invited by one of the organizers, who’d seen me do a set at Broadway Comedy Club almost two months ago. It was a hellish bringer show, with about 14 comics doing 6-minute sets—speed-dating the audience, basically—and only 5 were actually good.

As I made my way through Queens trying to find his apartment, I started to feel a pinch of fear. Maybe it was the fact that I was standing under the train tracks and a highway unsure of which direction I was supposed to walk in. Or maybe I was just having flashbacks to the crazy Greek man with the small gyro who told me I was a “tiny baby child.” Or maybe it was that that I was going to the apartment of three rando White boys I didn’t know. Nah, that’s nothing new—it was that this guy was an established comedian and I felt like I had to prove that I was good or something. Add to that my hatred of my job and possibility of being fired, and I needed this set to be great.

I got there shortly after 9 and sat in the “green room”—AKA one of guy’s bedroom. The guys were actually really nice and gracious, even offering to get soda or non-alcoholic beverages if I wanted. I felt like I was backstage at Conan or something—if Conan, like, came on public access at 4am.


I saw the set list and learned that I was opening the show!
Gulp. Blergh. Gloop. Labia.

I was hoping I’d get nestled in the middle, giving me ample time to feel out the room and see what these rugged Queens-bound Caucasians were into. I was told that it was a compliment, as they thought I’d bring good energy to get the show rolling. I had hoped to try new jokes, but as I looked out into the Caucasian Sea of faces, I immediately went into my own tales from Caucasia. All in all, the set was a bit spotty, with the biggest laughs coming from my asides to two middle-aged dudes in the front row. (One of whom I warned that I’d “sit on your lap for the remainder of the show and make it ALL ABOUT YOU if you don’t stop talking”) All in all, though, I was glad to get back up and active—and momentarily forget that I’m a terrible employee. It was also great to meet male stand-ups who aren't assholes and don't think of me as a second-class comic.

I’m not sure why I had an Angela-Bassett-in-Waiting-to-Exhale moment on the plantation on Friday. I think I got carried away by the rapture. If the world was gonna end, maybe I felt the need to tell Massa about himself before I went. I think I’m going to use this experience to produce my own faux-reality show for MTV. I’ll just follow people around for a week leading up to “the end of the world” (faking that will really up my production budget) and see how cray they get.

The tagline:
What happens when people stop being polite and start getting raptured?????

Psychology (of Racism) Today

Good morning, gentle readers. This morning’s post is inspired by a news story that was brought to my attention by not one, but two Caucasian friends. I blog to you know with a heavy and angry heart, but I must share this disgusting truth.

If you haven’t already heard, Psychology Today thinks Hitler had a point: non-whites are biologically inferior—at least, physically—which, as Derek Zoolander has shown us, is all that really matters. They recently posted—and then took down—an article that asked the hard-hitting question, “Why Are Black Women Less Physically Attractive Than Other Women?”

Inquiring racist minds need to know!!!!!!!!

Written by evolutionary psycholoracist Satoshi Kanazawa, the article provides “scientific” data that proves how hideous Black women are. His method is explained in the opening:

Add Health measures the physical attractiveness of its respondents both objectively and subjectively. At the end of each interview, the interviewer rates the physical attractiveness of the respondent objectively on the following five-point scale: 1 = very unattractive, 2 = unattractive, 3 = about average, 4 = attractive, 5 = very attractive. The physical attractiveness of each Add Health respondent is measured three times by three different interviewers over seven years.

From these three scores, I can compute the latent "physical attractiveness factor" by a statistical procedure called factor analysis. Factor analysis has the added advantage of eliminating all random measurement errors that are inherent in any scientific measurement. The latent physical attractiveness factor has a mean of 0 and a standard deviation of 1.

Who wants to bet these interviewers were White and/or Asian? And they conducted these interviews over seven years? We all know black don’t crack, certainly compared to those lacking in melanin, so I know this is a piece of sky-blue bullshit. Check the stats:

Notice that Asian women do a bit better in this graph. Also note that our racist scientist is Japanese.


He then brings it home with a take on the stupidity of the black subjects, noting that:

[E]ven though black women are objectively less physically attractive than other women, black women (and men) subjectively consider themselves to be far more physically attractive than others. In Wave III, Add Health asks its respondents to rate their own physical attractiveness subjectively on the following four-point scale: 1 = not at all, 2 = slightly, 3 = moderately, 4 = very. As you can see in the following graphs, both black women and black men rate themselves to be far more physically attractive than individuals of other races.



The good doctor then goes on the explain why we’re so hideous.

There are many biological and genetic differences between the races. However, such race differences usually exist in equal measure for both men and women. For example, because they have existed much longer in human evolutionary history, Africans have more mutations in their genomes than other races. And the mutation loads significantly decrease physical attractiveness (because physical attractiveness is a measure of genetic and developmental health). But since both black women and black men have higher mutation loads, it cannot explain why only black women are less physically attractive, while black men are, if anything, more attractive.

The only thing I can think of that might potentially explain the lower average level of physical attractiveness among black women is testosterone. Africans on average have higher levels of testosterone than other races, and testosterone, being an androgen (male hormone), affects the physical attractiveness of men and women differently. Men with higher levels of testosterone have more masculine features and are therefore more physically attractive. In contrast, women with higher levels of testosterone also have more masculine features and are therefore less physically attractive. The race differences in the level of testosterone can therefore potentially explain why black women are less physically attractive than women of other races, while (net of intelligence) black men are more physically attractive than men of other races.


Wow. This is some intensely racist shit and the fact that they could even call it science just demonstrates the lengths people will go to in order to keep racism alive. I don’t even know if there’s a way to make this funny because it’s just disgusting. As with any blatant form of institutionalized racism, my anger level rises the more I think about the number of hoops a research scientist has to go through to get a piece published. I don’t know all the details, but here are some basic things that have to happen for this article to get out into the world:

"Dr." Satoshi Kanazawa

Look at this dude. Smug racist son of a.....can we talk about his attractiveness?

First, he has to get grant money to conduct said research—which requires he outline what he seeks to study. No one seemed to be put off. He then has to explain to his team of “interviewers” what he’s trying to do. I don’t care how bad your student loans are, there’s no amount of work-study money that should convince you to “interview” and judge the attractiveness of people across various races.

After he saw the research through to completion, he then had to write and present this paper to several journals in hopes of publication. Not only was he published once in The Scientific Fundamentalist, but Psychology Today read this piece and thought, “Wow, this is a real breakthrough. Let’s put this up on our site!”

I’d like to also call out this “mutation theory”. He makes Africa sound like the island of Dr. Moreau, full of Darwin’s cast-offs and ebony circus folks. The testosterone bit is really hilarious, because it makes no sense. I may have broad shoulders, but I don’t have high testosterone levels, and anyone who says otherwise can suck my dick.

Too crass?

Leave comments, people. We have to help each other get through this.

Tales from the Crypt Vol 1

Hey friends!!

I must apologize for my lack of bloggery. I had little to no internet access during my work trip (those northern NY bitches are territorial when it comes to their WiFi) and had to settle for tweeting the madness from my phone. Now back from my upstate painting "expo," I don't even know where to begin. Do I start with the newly widowed diva who loved to use jazz hands or her sister, who's coming to NYC next week and wants to meet up with me? What about the asshole artist who disrespected me several times in public settings? Or what about the high school girl's lacrosse team who took up all the rooms on the floor of the hotel that I was on?

Maybe I'll just start with the easy stuff for this installment: the racism of AARP artists!

Quick quiz: Which of the following was said in total seriousness during this weekend's work event?

a) "These are the top dogs in watercolor."

b) "White is the most powerful thing we have--we never want to lose that power."

c) "It's a challenge to paint anything that's dark."

d) "With 1 being stark-white and 10 being black, we'd agree that we're a 3 or 4." [followed by resounding murmurs of agreement]

e) All of the above.

I'll give you 30 seconds..........

If you guessed E, give yourself a gold star!!!!!

This event was out of control. As expected, I was the youngest person by at least 25 years (there were two 40-somethings) and the only person of color. "You're the editor of [insert name of magazine that won't get me fired]?" attendees said no less than 40 times over the weekend.

"I KNOW!!" was my standard response.

Okay, I will say that the weekend wasn't as painful as I thought it would be--in some ways. The attendees/grandparents were very nice and had very positive things to say about the magazine and my work. The panel discussion I led at 8am on Sunday was well-received and the artists were great (except for the asshole). People liked my questions--which included such hard-hitters as "If you could paint only one subject for the rest of your career, what would it be?" and "What makes a painting done from a photograph a work of art?"--and one woman even said I had a future as a news anchor. Positives.

Negatives: I had zero control of when I came or went, being fetched as early as 7:45 am and getting back way past my work-event bedtime. Friday night I sat in a painting demonstration that lasted until 9:30pm and didn't get back to my room until 10:30--at which point I had no choice but to get over-priced food from the hotel restaurant because I hadn't eaten since the protein bar on the plane at 2pm and they weren't providing food.

The elderly are hilarious, however, and I did my best to stay entertained. The moment I arrived at the venue, I was accosted by Midge, a local artist who helped organize the event. She knew how to pronounce my last name all on her own, which immediately made me love her (for those who don't know, it's very ethnic and intimidating). After introducing herself, she went right into TMI territory, leaning in and taking a conspiratorial tone as she said, "My husband up and died on me last month, so I'm not myself."

I was told that Midge's husband "up and died on her last month" upwards of 9 times throughout the weekend by both Midge and her sister, Gail. Gail kind of took to me and stuck to me like glue all weekend. She kept saying--in her raspy smoker's voice that I loved-- "I don't want to participate, I like to watch. Really, I'm just here for Midge. She's just a saint. Husband up and died on her! Most women would be in the shadows, but she's out in the thick of it. Just a saint. Have you ever seen such a saint? I haven't, that's for sure."

Gail applied this type of repetition and hyperbole to everything.

Gail on the finger foods at Saturday night's event: "This is just the best little snack ever. Isn't it? Couldn't you just eat it all up all night? I could eat it up all night, that's for sure. Just the best in the whole world."

Gail on her granddaughter, who I have to meet when they're in town next week: "She's a real knockout. She's a blonde, smart as a whip. Just the prettiest, best knockout you've ever seen. She's a writer, Sojourner. She's one hell of a writer. Her short stories would knock your socks off, I mean it. Just the best in the whole world, that's for sure."

Gail on the meal she and her sis had before the event: We went to Wegman's and it wasn't even good, Sojourner. It was just me-di-o-cre. Just the most simple thing you've ever had in your life, I tell ya. Let's go get some more of those little snacks--aren't they the best ever? Come on, let's get some of those. I could eat those for dinner--that goat cheese in the dough is the best ever!" [At this point she would grab me by the arm and drag me to the food table with her.]

It wasn't until I met a dynamic lesbian who worked at the venue that the weekend started to look up. She and her partner Dana picked me up from the Saturday night event and I went with them and Leslie, the dyna-lez's daughter, to a vegetarian restaurant for dessert.

As always, gays save me from the darkness.

I gotta run now, but I'll be back with tomorrow installment of Tales from the Crypt!!!!

Read It and Weep

I lost my iPod some time on Tuesday. I hate my life.

I mean, I knew this had to happen eventually—that’s why I never purchased one to begin with. When I was in elementary school, I was always losing very basic and vital items, like my sweater, backpack, and glasses case. I remember my mother’s tight lip as she tried not to yell and began a search-and-rescue mission more focused than a Navy SEAL. Her biggest concern, being a single mom, was how we’d pay for a new version of whatever I’d lost, and I felt it, too (glasses ain’t cheap!). I think this had a profound impact on my adult life, as I always try to avoid having nice things for fear of losing them.* It wasn’t until I was going to Oz that I thought getting one of these newfangled Apple gizmos would be practical. And even then, I inherited one from an elite gay visionary who was upgrading.

The word “sassafrass” was etched on the back.

I miss it so much.

It’s amazing how something so minor can cause a shame spiral. I am gutted. I'm replaying every moment in the last 48 hours, wondering where it could have gone. I remember hearing the echo of an object hitting the subway platform on Tuesday night as I exited the subway—did it fall from my bag without me even knowing??????? I can't stop shaking.

As if my work trip wasn’t going to suck enough, I’m now without my music.

The best way to deal with self-loathing is to get out of self, and thank goodness for a friend who knows how I feel about the D. I received the following link this morning and it really helped me check myself before I wreck myself:

Half of Detroit Can’t Read. The gist:

Forty-seven percent of adults in Detroit are functionally illiterate. That means almost half of residents can't do basic things like read a newspaper, fill out a job application or other forms, or understand the instructions on a medicine bottle.

Guys, this is getting out of control. First T-Baby, then old ladies scamming folks, and now everyone’s illiterate?????? I used to joke about Detroit being the city that God forgot, but maybe I wasn’t that far off.

I guess I should just be glad I could read and write my way to making enough money to buy a gay visionary’s hand-me-down iPod in the first place.


*paging Dr. Freud—Jewboo, does this explain my fear of letting love in?

Things I Have Said Today That Weren't for Comedic Effect

1. To coworker, re: upcoming travel show: Do you think the crowd in Stony Point will appreciate jokes about gentrifying my vagina?

2. To the entire office: I'm sorry I said 'vagina' everyone.

3. To Jewboo, re: why I have an Ipad to play with: Well, love, I am a lady. And when I have my Iperiod, I need an Ipad.

4. Me [re: homeless man who is asking everyone in the lobby for change and bypasses our table]: That homeless man didn't even ask us for money.
Jewboo: He asked me when I was walking over here.
Me: What kind of institutionalized racism is that? Doesn't he see me with an IPad????

5. Out loud in office, to no one in particular: Well, I like genetic anomalies and "To Catch a Predator".

I'm in a weird mood today, guys.

I just found out some details on the out-of-town set I'm doing next week, and I'm getting nnnnnnneeeerrrrvvous!

The booker's email was ridiculously cryptic and vague, saying only:

Thu May 19th

8:30 show - arrive at least 30 minutes prior

80 people, Content R

MC: 20 min

Middle: 30 min

HL: BLACKTRESS 40 m

Guys, I'm trying to stay cool, but the other two guys are seasoned pros! The "Middle" man has been on Conan several times! His name is [something that's not his real name], he looks like an approachable Rob Reiner, and he's been on 30 Rock! How on earth did I get the headline spot? Am I being punked and hazed, or is the audience comprised of young, gifted, and black women? All these unknown variables are frightening me. I'll have to start working on a set list that'll kill--kill time, that is.

I may have to request a projector so that I can show YouTubes.

The show is at some Steakhouse or pub or something. My coworker is from the same county as Stony Point and said, "it's kind of hick-ish." Um.....can these hicks get down with stories about being "inside Caucasia" and my penchant for miscegenation? The booker wrote "content R", but does that stand for Racial, Racy, or Retro? I've been told that my comedy is "smart," and I've got to "slow it down for the rest of the crowd." Maybe I can kill time by spelling everything out?

I'm starting to get terrified. So I come to you now, gentle readers--the people who know my truths better than anyone else. Also, most of you are Caucasian and/or grew up in the suburbs, so you might be better equipped to handle this type of audience. What should I do?????

I need you now more than ever.