London, Part 1....

Greetings from London!

Sojo is in the land of the great colonizer. On the day that we celebrate the arrival of the English in America, I have chosen to leave and head over here. So far, it's been pretty stress-free travel. I knew the trip was blessed when one of the featured movies was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix-- I think we all know how i feel about Harry Potter V! My goal for the overnight flight was to crack open a bottle of airplane wine and drift to sleep with visions of HP in my head. This indeed happened, and I even managed to score a second bottle of airplane wine, which I've tucked away in my pocketbook for later-- yes, I'm that cheap.
Primarily because I changed 245 US dollars and was given £106!!!! I am screwed. They aren't fucking around with the pound!

I'm currently writing this post from a place I was sure would be a safe haven for a woman of color, writer, and former slave such as myself: A computer lab in the School of Oriental and African Studies, in central London. As the name suggests, they are down with the study of the BROWN; everyone and their mother is a fan of the OTHER! I thought we could talk politics, and maybe I'd read them an excerpt from my famous speech "Ain't I A Woman?" Unfortunately, they can't handle the TRUTH.

These kids are all kinds of oppressed-- and not in the good way. In the last 30 minutes I've counted 12 white folks with dreadlocks (HOT MESS!!), one white girl in a sari, and some random dude rocking a staten island hoodie. On my way to the lab, I passed a student meeting about "LGBT issues." Um, I went to Wesleyan-- if they've only got 4 letters to their issues, they don't even know the half of it. But clearly they just love walking around in this dreary rainy weather under their umbrellas of oppression, cause everyone was all abuzz with talk about "issues."

It reminded me of Wesleyan, only with everyone more foreign-- and, as a result, more attractive. As I look around, I try to find potential foreign hotties. I was even tempted-- by Litsa, of course-- to sign up for a rendezvous on london.craigslist.org. I mean, think of the fodder for comedy?!

But then I remembered that such behavior would probably end up with me on the front page of The NY Post, with some tacky, inappropriate headline that attempts to pun and rhyme, while also abbreviating, like, "Put on Black Dress for dead BlackTRESS" or "Say it loud, I'm black and I'm... dead."

More to come as the quest for an English muffin continues....

Mondays With Artists

Yeah, it's Wednesday, whatever.

But I had to share this ridiculous press release that came to my attention this morning. I won't use the artist's name, but this is at the very top of her press release:

Ms. Anderson is a passionate woman. She's passionate about life, she's passionate about family--and she's really, really passionate about cutlery.
That's right, cutlery: forks, knives, and spoons.
They are, according to Anderson, so much more than they appear.

What? What the hell does this mean? I love that cutlery trumps family and life. Cutlery IS life.

Clearly, this woman has no one to love and nothing else to do, and she's surrounded by people who lead her to believe her love for cutlery qualifies as "Art" and not "Mental Illness."

The end of the press release says she's available for interviews; I may have to call her up. I think she may need the Sojourner Truth.

I should also mention that this quote is from an excerpt from a longer article in the "Costco Connection 2007" Has anyone heard of this publication? I assume you receive it with your bulk items. Why haven't I been writing for this magazine? Clearly, they'll take anything.

Are you passionate about cutlery? What about when it.... glows?

SoundZ Like FUN!

So, I am trying to regain my blacktress-blogger work ethic by providing more than one post a week. I blame the fact that I haven’t posted on yet another discovery in my life:The bar/club Soundz.

Yes, that’s with a ‘z’. Located on Broadway, between 124^th and 125^th streets, I like to think Soundz is singlehandedly responsible for the Harlem Renaissance of the new millennium—aka Gentrification in the 21^st Century.

Oh, sidebar: Don’t you hate when you’re talking to someone and get the words ‘genocide’ and ‘gentrification’ confused?

Anyway, back to Soundz. I first attended with Litsa (obvi) and the uni-testicular failure who will go unnamed. I wanted to prove my pimp hand was strong, so I offered to buy them drinks. I ordered a beer, a wine, and a cocktail, and the total was…. 12 DOLLARS!!!

Thank god someone’s keeping liquor accessible to the black community—and Columbia students! $12 for 3 drinks. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I would have to say that ends up being $4 per drink—on a Friday night! Holla at a broke playa!

We sidle up the bar, where we talk to the bartender—a grad student who pours drinks heartily and with affection. Once on the plush red velveteen couches, we are socially attacked by Aziz and Amir, two brown men who clearly lack social skills—and no, it’s not cause they’re brown! Aziz was wearing a wedding band on his right hand and tried to front like he wasn’t married; and Amir told me my hat was sexy.

Um, it’s wasn’t lace. My breast wasn’t popping out of it. There’s nothing sexy about Banana Republic knitwear. Besides, I was clearly all up on another man who I would soon discover had one testicle—clearly, I wasn’t Amir’s for the taking.

My next voyage to SoundZ was last Wednesday, and it was me, Litsa, and several middle aged black men. Now, I should mention that Soundz is under the train tracks—which would explain why it attracts such rif raf. Litsa and I told the bartender about how we plan to make a documentary about this location, with it’s red light special-lighting, unnecessary velvet rope outside (no one’s clamoring to get in), and patrons who eat Chinese food and McDonald’s from neighboring establishments. I’m also hoping to turn it into some sort of dating game, in which the winning contestants receive an all-expenses-paid trip to the bathroom, where magic happens and babies are made!

Passport to Freedom

Dear Readers/Equals,

I am heading to Europe to spread the truth. Starting Wednesday, I will spend 3 days in London, where I will say “Frosted Flakes” when they say “Cheerio!” and then head to Barcelona, where I will tell LA VERDAD! Though it may seem odd to leave this country on one of our highest of holy days-- Thanksgiving-- I feel it is on the day of celebrating the oppression of a minority that I must escape.

I’m excited for this getaway primarily because the United States is heaping oppression on me like we’re back in slave days. How, you may ask?

1. I did not get the co-op. Apparently, I’m not good enough to live in a newly renovated crack den. Fine then, let them gentrify it and don’t blame me when the Columbia kids leave the doors unlocked and everyone gets jacked!!

2. I was rejected by a 25 year old actor who is new to this fair city and has one testicle. Um, excuse me? While I was initially drawn to the fact that he was a survivor, and could perhaps relate to oppression and darkness (as well as the dark woman), it turns out I really should have focused on the most important part of his identity: he’s an ACTOR. Though I am a blacktress, and appreciate the artistic yearning, actors often have the following traits which prevent them from being true:
- They are egotistical.

- They are broke

- They sleep on twin-sized air mattresses.

- They live in non-renovated crack dens.

But they also often have a charm and charisma which is dangerous when unleashed. And I must admit I was the victim of yet another performer, another player on life’s stage. And he indeed played me—much like a remake of a Shakespearean drama starring the latest Hollywood tart-let.

Clearly, the quest for the winter spoon is not going so well. So I now pack my bags, head to foreign lands, and hope for the best. And by “the best” I mean, “copious amounts of food, non-awkward fetishizing of my Nubian beauty, and sexy accents.”

Wish me luck. I may not return.

I HATE NEW YORK

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of a post in nearly two weeks. Things have been dark and rough for Sojourner, as the brisk fall air has rapidly turned to bone-crushing winter windiness, and I’m losing my will to go out and about. I’ve been in a bit of a stalemate, as the co-op board continues to oppress me. I had my meeting with them on Nov. 1, and have still heard nothing! Did we hook up at a party after a drunken night of debauchery? Have they been talking to Mr. Whiteley? Why are they avoiding me?!

I just want a place to live that’s not a cardboard box! Is that too much to ask? I’m just a woman of color and a writer, trying to stop the gentrification of Harlem by living and working and growing. LET ME LIVE!

I digress. This is not why I post today, gentle readers. Last night, I received a call from actor, comedian, genius Nick Cearley. It went something like this.

Sojo: Hello, Mr. Cearley. To what do I owe this honor?

Nick: Well, Sojourner, you haven’t blogged in a while, and I was worried. I called to check up on you.

Sojo: Oh, Massa Cearley, you see into my soul! It’s just been so rough out here for a blacktress and I’ve just shut down.

Nick: We need the truth, Sojourner.

Sojo: I will give it to you, Massa. The truth, the whole truth, and NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

The massa has spoken. I must blog. I must preach it. I have a potential winter spoon in the works, but seeing as he’s not foreign, crazy, or offensive, I’m going to try to create good karma and not talk about our weekend of magic. Instead, I will discuss the latest thing to rock my world: I LOVE NEW YORK.

Okay, I know I’m about two years behind with this reference, but it has only recently become a part of my life, and I have no idea how I haven’t ranted about this tramp before.

New York is single-handedly setting back the black women’s movement by 75 years. With her fake breasts—looking like two goiters—and her mangling of the English language, I am unclear on why exactly these men are vying for her affection. The episode I had the pleasure of seeing (at Litsa’s house, after having a delicious breakfast of Chinese food), involved the signing of a blood oath—or, as New York called it, a “blood OAF”—which required the men profess their love for New York, as well as present her with an object that was valuable to them.

The most touching object came from Punk, a large black man who attended Harvard law school and is an up-and-coming attorney. He has a terrible jerry curl, size DD man-breasts, and arms like ham hocks. But, looks aside, he is the smartest and most mentally sound man on the show. Why in the name of the Lord is he on reality television? To show his love for New York, he brings his deceased father’s wristwatch, and tells a touching story of how important it was to his father that he become a lawyer. New York was moved, as he pricked his finger and placed a bloody fingerprint on his oaf. (Is any of this really sanitary? I wonder, as I digest MSG and am fondled by Litsa’s lesbian dogs)

The most ridiculous object was from a man who I call… Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (I forget his real moniker). He slurs incessantly and has no concept of reality, and covers his head in gypsy-style rags—though he has no hair to speak of. He approached the altar and displays the following:

“This is a wallet my grandmuva had got in Egypt—cause she travels a lot and that’s important to me. And then there’s this ring my fava had gave to my muva. She wore it for her driving test and she failed the first time, then she wore it again and she had passed.”

Um… What?!

Instead of bringing something valuable, Fetal decided to bring two useless things. There is nothing special about a ring that your mom wore on two occasions, resulting in totally different outcomes. And, like, did his “Grandmuva” do something in Egypt? Did she at least bring back a baby Zahara or something? Why am I impressed?

Needless to say, Fetal did not sign the blood oaf and was voted off the show.

Instead, New York decides to bring back Buddha, a man who she felt was wrongly kicked off the show. “The opportunity to find true love was tooken from me,” she explained over a meal at a fancy restaurant (where her bright purple bra poked out of the top and back of her dress).

TOOKEN?

Um... I struggled to learn to read, repeatedly risked beating and death, hiding pamphlets and alphabet blocks from my masssas, only for this damn fool to say TOOKEN!

She is a disgrace to my hard work and triumph. And she insults the hard work I put in to find a winter spoon when she has a bevy of men to choose from (granted, they are mostly crazy, mildly retarded with Asperberger’s and herpes—but still).

This is a pic from a different episode, but this is the SAME BRA that was peeking out during the fancy dinner, during which she said "tooken"

COTTON gin and tonics with Gay Visionaries-- aka HALLOWEEN

Happy Halloween Everybody!

Okay, I know I’m late—it’s called CP time. Get with it.

So, it’s been a while since I blogged. It’s because there have almost been too many things to discuss!!! Let’s re-cap:

The Greek went crazy. He began sending me angry emails, hurling insults at me much in the way the god Zeus hurled lightning bolts at mere mortals for sport. He also called me, utilizing his lack of a cell phone to give me attitude and force me to speak with him. He simply could not handle the truth of the fact that I DIDN'T WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM EVER AGAIN.

Whiteley never called. He’s dead to me. I should have known not to even holla at a man who sleeps on a mattress on a floor.

I’m meeting with the co-op board tonight to see if I get my apartment!!! This is the big moment guys. Sojo will finally be free from the shackles of the oppression of her mother and her latin lover Eduardo. Keep your fingers crossed (for me) and your legs crossed (for Jesus)!

Last night was the greatest night of my life. I attended the Halloween/birthday extravaganza of the actor Nick Cearley, where gorgeous gay men were scantily clad and enjoying $5 mojitos. It was men, men everywhere—and not a drop to drink!!! While I’m normally against the “holiday” of Halloween, as it encourages people to assume alternate identities and not live up to the TRUTH, I thought I’d reclaim it and show the truth of who I once was.

I donned my old bonnet, the skirt I wore when working in the fields, and I brought some cotton balls that I’d picked in the hot, sweaty aisles of Duane Reade. I called the white men ‘Massa’ and didn’t look them in the eye—just as I used to do. I knew it might make people uncomfortable, but they don’t call me “You can’t handle the TRUTH” for nothing!

(That's me and Massa Colin, remembering the good times.)

Though I anticipated scorn, and prayed I wouldn't be attacked by someone dressed as a Black Panther, I was pleased to find that the gays could indeed handle my truth. One fine man—his name was Patrick, I believe—was wearing a green sleeveless top and booty shorts to accentuate his…. Masculinity. He came up to me and said, “Sister, where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

I was shocked. I wasn’t anticipating this introduction from a half-naked man. I faltered.

“What?” I said.

“I said—where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

“DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE!!!!!”

We began a rousing rendition of the old spiritual that my mammy used to sing to me, and he told me he was from Mississippi. We spoke of the past and how we’d changed, and the freedom we’d both enjoyed as oppressed peoples. I asked him how he could be so bold as to come out on the streets of Manhattan in such a clothing—or, bet yet, lack of clothing.

He explained to me that he was one of BLOW WHITE’S SEVEN WHORES:

Sleazy, Easy, Slutty, Bitchy, Horny, Sticky, and… COCK!

The most brilliant costume I’ve ever seen in my life. Each of these whores came into my world and showed me the TRUTH of Halloween—it’s about creativity, expressing oneself as a strong black woman/man/trans and wearing little more than a codpiece.

As I relished in the beauty of the moment and sang “Wade in the Water” with my new massas, I tall figure caught my eye. It was—No, it couldn’t be! Yes—it was!

Actor Jeff Hiller!!!!!!!

You may recall from my previous posting on the musical extravaganza Bernice Bobs Her Mullet, that Jeff Hiller is my calcium boost, gay icon, and actor/comedian extraordinaire. I have been drawn to his art since seeing him perform in the UCB group CREEP, where is I was drawn to his height, his rapier wit, and subtle-yet-effective fashion sense. When I saw him as Draycott Deyo in Joe Major’s magnum opus, my friend crush grew deeper. And now, it could become real.

I instantly stopped Jeff in his tracks, as he made his way over to the birthday boy. I told him my name, showed him my cotton balls, and told him I would be his surrogate, should the need ever arise. I spoke in run-on sentences, explained how I had TiVo’d the two commercials he’s currently featured in, and called him “Massa Hiller.”

Jeff could handle the truth!!!!!!! He laughed, he didn’t fear the blacktress, and he was everything I dreamed he’d be. After letting him say his hellos and work the room, I moved in again, apologizing for my intensity. I asked him about his craft, how he became so self-actualized (and tall), and what I could do to get out there as a blacktress. I told him I would be the Mel to his Flight of the Conchords. His response:
“Oh, you mean my friend Kristin?”

SHUT THE FLIP UP! How could he just drop that Nagasaki bomb on me like it wasn’t no thang?! I lost it, I had to be torn away and escorted to the underground railroad so that I could go home.I think he thought I was drunk.

I wasn’t.

But I think I may have finally found my baby daddy.

Everyone who reads this should look Jeff up on MySpace and totally become his friend. Tell him Sojourner sent you. He’ll know what it means.

Okay, back to work on the plantation!

The Unanswerable Question-- I Need Your Help!

So, as you know, I had a wonderful Friday night- Saturday morning date (holla!) with Whiteley.

It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).

Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.

Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!

As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!

Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!