There's No Place Like (Someone Else's) Home

Here's an excerpt of a conversation I had with my mother on Sunday:

Mamadukes: Sojourner, when are you going to stop spending all your time with gay men?
Me: When they stop loving me, mother, when they stop being true. That's when.

She thinks that this is the main reason I am single. What she fails to realize is that for the first time in a rather long time, I could care less. I'm not a 'fag hag', but a Future Gay Icon, making my way through the gay ranks until I'm a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race, so fierce in my performance that they let me compete even though I have lady parts.

I started to form this master plan over the weekend, and it all came together on Monday evening.

Friday night I met up with a great gay pal who was visiting from Australia, and spent the evening club hopping in the West Village and Hell's Kitchen. The highlight of the night had to be Peaces, a gay club in the West Village, where we met a bevy of boys. My favorite would have to be a man named--no joke--Robert Christmas, who stuck his finger down my butt crack and his gin-and-tonic straw in my cleavage before giving me his business card and saying, "you know you wanna facebook me." The man is a Christmas miracle.

See, it's that kind of straight-forward, no-bullshit tactic that the hetero males need to be taking if they want a shot with the blacktress--well, except for the ass-finger and straw-cleavage moves.

After an excellent night, I came home only slightly buzzed, as I didn't have to drown my sorrows of being surrounded by d-bag heteros with way too many vodka-sodas. I then was able to awake bright and early on Saturday and have lunch with two of my favorite boys, a couple that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out. They invited me to a fellow friend's graduation party for Monday night, and I said, "Evite be damned, I'm coming!"

I woke up Monday with a heap of errands and to get myself in a can-do mood, I put on an outfit inspired by Joan Holloway from Mad Men (my latest addiction. I am obsessed with repressed White folks, high-waisted skirts, and 1960s social conventions). As I walked through midtown running errands, I noticed that a bevy of banker types were lightly eye-fucking me--I guess the sexy secretary vibe was working for me. Thank you, Joan!

However, it wasn't until I arrived at the graduation party that evening that I was truly the belle of the ball. Surrounded by professional gay couples, drinking white wine, I remembered why I feel most at home in moments like these--it's because when I'm with the gays, I'm the prettiest girl in the room! I met the graduate's parents, who had come from Witchita, Kansas, to celebrate their son and his boyfriend. As I took mom's camera and played paparazzi, I got to meet everyone and learned that Kansas is a hotbed of gay activity. How great is that?! My favorite people had to be the 18-year-olds who just moved to New York City together and are in a realationship! In their gray slacks and pastel button-downs (the gay uniform for events), they were just the cutest ever! I am kind of obsessed with their young gay love, and offered to buy them booze whenever the need arises--you know how I love to enable addictions.

As the party wound down, I chatted with the parental units, and they thanked me for taking pics, and then told me how pretty I was. "Where's your boyfriend, sweetie?" Mom asked me tenderly.
"Oh, he's right there," I said, pointing to one of my friends across the room. "And there. there. Oh, and there's another one there," as I pointed at various homosexual gentlemen. I then asked if I should move to Kansas to find a strapping lad who could handle a blacktress. Mom said yes, and next thing you know, she's taking down my blog address and wondering where she can see me do stand up.

I am now, like Dorothy, on a quest to return home to the plains of Kansas. Or, better yet, I am Diana Ross in "The Wiz." I am done with Munchkins and the lollipop guild. I will no longer be fooled by the little man behind the big curtain. I am ready to ease on down, ease on down the road.
Before I go, let me go ask one of my gays for a pair of sparkly red Mary Janes--teehee.

The Fuhrer of My Heart?????

Last night I was reminded why I always date awkward dudes who aren't particularly attractive to anyone but me.
It is because I am really awkward around hot people. Hot men especially.
Remember how I lived in the quaint Sydney suburb of Lilyfield, with a flatmate who was a hottie-mchot-hot German guy?
He was so hot, it was awkward for me to live with him. Seriously. I didn't poop for about 6 weeks. I was also really awkward, and since he was mostly studying and not too chatty, we would have sporadic 10-minute conversations where I babbled like an overexcited schoolgirl and he spoke with sharp German efficiency.
One time, I came upstairs and he was in the common area at his computer (per usual), wearing no shirt. I got really flustered and excited, and said, 'Dude, why are you not wearing a shirt? Put on some clothes.'
Unfortunately, he did not know it was Opposite Day, and what I really meant was, 'Dude, can you please take off your pants as well, and spoon me?'

He has the features I have discovered are quite common in the German man: a chiseled jaw and lips like a girl. Seriously, I have been swooning over these strapping lads. I love it!
Anyway, he is back in his homeland and I got to see him last night. I was really excited to hang out, even though we weren't close, mostly because he's just so damn fine, you know?

He suggested we head to a place called Winery, which warmed my heart because he knows I don't like beer, and I know that's all he drinks. It was a cool spot, where you only pay 1 euro for your glass, drink as much as you want, and pay what you feel you should. It might actually have taken the place in my heart that was once reserved for the Bourgie Pig, which has simply become to bourgie for me to afford.

Anyway, we were meeting up with some of his friends, which prevented me from probing deep into his soul as I'd hoped. I was late to our meeting, and being an efficient German, he chastized me thoroughly. I don't know if this is possible, but he was actually hotter than I remembered. This instantly caused me to start rambling about what I'd done so far, and how huge my crush was on Berlin, and my time with the gay mafia (I can't say more about them, for obvious reasons). This ridiculous rambling and interrupting took place whenever we'd start to chat throughout the night.
I was so rude and silly. Of course, because I want him so bad that I can't really think clearly, I have told him about man drama--you know, I'm trying to de-sexualize him and treat him like a gal pal, in hopes of making myself less weird.

It does not work. Now I just feel like this really hot guy knows way too much about me.
Like the fact that I was worried about "my vag hanging out" while riding a bike in a short dress through the streets of Berlin.

I did get to know much more about him, though. Apparently he has siblings, is getting a master's degree (can i call it a 'fuhrer' degree?), and has had his heart broken by a girl. He may have lived on struggle strasse briefly (more on that later). He has a lot of female friends, but not in the sketchy way. He is really funny and we spent an inappropriately long time quoting 'Team America'.


He is certainly a unicorn.
And he lives across 6 times zones.
Clearly this is the safest crush I can have at the moment. Nothing has happened, there is no way he could hurt me, our interactions have only been positive, and he doesn't have red hair! There's no chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that he would ever want me, and I can simply think of how pretty his face is.
I think the cold storage shed where my heart used to be can only deal with this much risk at the moment.
Who have I become?

Am I a Lovefool.... for Sweden?

Hello Readers,

I am blogging to you live from INSIDE CAUCASIA. The mood is tense--primarily because I can't really figure out how to type on this Swedish keyboard.

I am currently in Sankt Eriksplan, in Stockholm, but away from touristy stuff. I'm staying with a friend's cousin--and I think I have a mad girl-crush. I'm not sure if it was when we were looking for a pub and she referred to former party-hard self as a 'club fox,' or when she stole a poster advertising Britney Spears' upcoming Stockholm concert off of the subway wall, but all I know is, I'll never be the same again.

It was quite sunny and nice our first few days, but now Swedish weather has reared its ugly head--it's cold and rainy, and we decided instead of going to a pub or a club, it was better to rent a movie, drink Absolut pear flavored vodka with Fanta, and eat candy. You know, the logical alternative.

The movie was a Swedish film called 'Let the Right One In.' It involved tween human-vampire love and was surprisingly gory and random. It was also kind of tender, as it would be when 12-year-old Oskar asks his vampire lady friend if she "wants to go steady."
Nothing about this country is average! They are a cold people, still grappling with race issues, but also have a knack for design. I mean, it really is ingenius. I've stayed in a studio apartment with three other women and everyone's had a place to sleep! Talk about structure and space maximization!
I would expect no less from the people who brought us IKEA.

In fact, there heaps of things I can thank this cold nation for:
H&M
Ace of Base
The Cardigans (love me, love me, say that you love me!)
Beloved children's book character Pippi Longstocking
The Nobel Prize
Smorgasbords (heaps of all kinds of foods, meant to be eaten in order, from salty to sweet--brilliant!)
VIKINGS (I love to pillage and plunder)

However, I would have to ask someone about the whole 'active white supremacist population.' It makes me a bit scared to look some dudes in the eye.

Journey to the Center of CAUCASIA

In approximately 5 hours I will board a plane bound for Stockholm, Sweden, where I will spend 2 weeks. This will be plane number 14 in approximately 9 weeks. It will be my third journey into a different time zone. It will be frequent flyer miles 5,298,001-8,515,210.

I'm excited.
And fearful.

Not only will this be my first trip with one of my best friends--and the first time I've traveled with someone since developing my comfort and habits as a lone wolf/blackpacker--but I'll be in Scandinavia. The epicenter of Caucasian culture. Where pigment is a mere figment of the imagination!

I'm scared it's going to be very.... Village of the Damned.

AAAHHHH!!!! Inside Caucasia!

One friend said to me, "You go to the whitest vacation spots." Well, I'm sorry if this diminishes my 'negrosity,' but I believe that only by going deep inside Caucasia can I truly learn their ways. Like Nicholas Cage in Face/Off, I will go deep undercover--incognegro, if you will--and find out about Swedes. Packing list features:
-Hip boots, to combat the 40-degree temperatures.
-Sunglasses, to fend off the Swedish paparazzi who'll think I'm Michelle Obama.
-Eclipse, the third book in the Twilight series. After all, nothing prepares you for Caucasia like pasty vamps.
-The movie Juno, freshly uploaded onto my iPod. I'm not really sure why. Maybe cause it shows what trials and tribulations Caucasia can get through with a few smartly placed quips?


Okay, I'm off to finish packing and learn key Swedish phrases (such as "Do you have a girlfriend?" and "I'd like red wine, please"). Wish me luck! I hope to have hard-hitting news from my journey into the center of CAUCASIA* very soon.


*I hope my use of 'Caucasia' doesn't offend anyone. I mean, some of my best friends are White.

Stars-- They're Just Like ME!

Okay, this is getting out of control. Today, I walked into my favorite Chinese restaurant on the Upper West Side for lunch, and who do I see but actress Brooke Smith (not Hogan), who played the tough-as-nails heart surgeon who started a lesbian relationship with Sara Ramirez on Grey's Anatomy!!

I heart TV lesbians. Almost as much as I heart real-life ones.

Anyway, this restaurant has been a fixture in my life since I was a wee lass, and I even followed it when it changed locations. Their new spot is always half empty, even though they have a $6 lunch special that's NOT greasy or made of cat intestines! It's a real diamond in the rough.

So, I walk in and think I recognize this woman, but she was looking a bit sallow (you know the stars are without their makeup), and I wasn't sure. As I took my seat, she started talking and the voice proved it was her. As I texted a couple friends and tried to listen in on her conversation, I realized she was having a heart-to-heart with a (possibly gay) male friend. She was going through something intense. Snippets included:
"I never really felt like I belonged, so usually when I'm on set I just sort of retract."
What, she never felt like she belonged?! But she's been on Grey's! And Weeds!!
"I was just being myself, and this is why this is so hard and surprising."
I'm insecure, too!!!!!

I couldn't catch all of it, but I get the sense that there was some relationship that could never be, and that she wasn't expecting, but it didn't end the way she wanted it to (or maybe I'm projecting?).

I couldn't believe Brooke was just chilling with a best gay having a tender talk over cheap Chinese. Clearly this actress understands the plight of the blacktress. As they rose, he gave her a deep hug and they held each other tight, before walking out arm in arm. Oh my god, haven't I been there?

I've decided I'm getting a poster of her and putting it over my bed.

Pseudo Celeb Sighting!!!

Okay, guys, I swear this is not "Vampire Month" on the blacktress blog, but I can't help but share today's news. Bear with me.

I had lunch in the West Village today with a friend who just finished his final exams for this semester of law school. It was cool to see him, and I was way less autistic than I've been in my recent reunions with friends. I think it's because he's a Will Truman-esque character that I feel safe with--and who I plan to have represent me in future legal troubles (copyrighting the term 'blacktress,' perhaps?).

We were dining on Mexican (one of the cuisines I was deprived of down under, and am now eating with the ferocity of a woman carrying sextuplets), and in walked two gentlemen. One was short, the other was average, with facial hair. They were backlit by the sun and difficult to see at first, but I instantly recognized those faces.

Actors Adam Busch and Danny Strong, who were regulars on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"-- one of my favorite television shows of all time.















Look at how cool they are! Adam with his spiked up hair and his intense gaze. Danny, looking sharp yet earnest with that tender smile. He's, like, 4'11 in real life, guys. And I totally don't care, he is the coolest.

Don't act like you're surprised. You know how I feel about vamps. And teen angst. And lesbian witches.

Needless to say, I was giddy as a school girl on a summer's day when I saw them. I could not stop leaning over to see what they were up to. I was trying to sharpen my bionic hearing, but couldn't catch exactly what they were ordering. Danny asked about onions and peppers, and I immediately made a mental note, just in case I ever invited him to a dinner party and needed to know his dislikes and/or allergies. The highlight was when Danny asked the girls sitting next to them how their guacamole was, and told them they inspired his order. They said it was good, and he actually got up and went to their table and tried their gauc!!!

I wanted to become those girls right away. Immediately. The jealousy was palpable.

I think what made it so intense for me was not only that they were on Buffy, but that on the show they played friends--and here they were in real life, just eating some Mexican, like.... TWO FRIENDS!!!

This simply proves what I've been saying for decades (television is reality), and what US Weekly has been saying for years (stars--they're just like US!)

I was too awkward and nervous to talk to them--who wants to be bothered while eating? So I just sorta smiled at Adam Busch as I walked out and he looked like, "um, why are you looking at me?" Which was all I really needed, actually.

I was tempted to ask them where Alyson Hannigan was, and if she needed a nanny for her offspring, but I figured it was best to quit before the authorities were called.


okay, I'm done sharing. Back to packing for tomorrow's journey to....the center of Caucasia.

If You Like Twilight, You'll Love DUSK

Since I’ve given up on men, I’ve started reading the Twilight books to get my fix of the good stuff-- I am all about the sexual tension and abstinence message. In fact, Twilight has inspired me to write a book of my own. I want to share a draft of the first chapter with you now, if you don't mind.

Here’s a bit of a backstory: It’s about a girl—stay with me—and she’s in love with this boy, but he’s not a boy, he’s a vampire. And he’s actually obsessed with the scent of her blood, and it drives him into a sexual frenzy, but he can’t have it or she’ll die. It’s a huge metaphor for blue balls. This is called…

DUSK

Beaut walked into her house in Spoons, Alaska, and the slamming of the door behind her was almost too much too bear. Although Gregory had just dropped her off 10 minutes ago, it felt like an eternity had already gone by.

Eternity.

That’s all Beaut was asking for. She couldn’t understand why Gregory wouldn’t just bone bite her just once, so she could become like him.

“Beaut, you okay?” Beaut realized she had been standing in front of the door with her eyes closed, lightly swaying, and almost touching her budding breasts. Her father Matt’s gruff, depression-tinged voice snapped her out of her thoughts of Gregory. Matt was a security guard at the local iHop, but everyone in the town came to enforce the law. At the moment he was holding a machete, which he’d been sharpening in the garage before he heard Beaut come in.

“Yeah, Dad, sorry.” She walked into the kitchen and set her bag on the table, turning immediately to the refrigerator. Hopefully he couldn’t see her bright red face.

Her red face.

Embarrassment was the only time Beaut’s pale skin got any color. Well, unless she was with Gregory. One look into his liquid topaz eyes and her face instantly flushed like a toilet—a toilet full of emotion. All of her lips swelled, and she wanted nothing more than to be close to him. But she knew her greatest desire—and Gregory’s, too—could be the very end of them.

You see, Gregory was a vampire. A 347-year-old vampire who didn’t look a day over 18. In fact, he was gorgeous in every sense of the word. His smooth Caucasian skin was colder than the Alaskan winter, but when he stepped into the sunlight, he shone like an Atlantic City stripper dipped in body glitter. Beaut could recall the first day she met Gregory. They were sitting in biology, studying human reproduction, and he refused to look at her. He was shaking slightly, and Beaut thought that maybe the diagrams had him aroused. She tried to ignore it, and smiled, but he just looked away. When class ended, he stormed out—but she could still see the protrusion through his denim cutoffs.

Just then, the phone rang, calling Beaut back to reality. She sprang up to answer it, hoping it was Gregory.

“Hello?” she panted desperately, like a crack addict hoping her dealer had the goods….of sex.

“Hey, Beaut, what’s up?” It was Noah, Beaut’s friend who lived in the trailer park a few miles down. Noah was Beaut’s only friend, and her heart welled up when she heard his voice. She could almost feel his burning hot satiny copper skin and his liquid onyx eyes on her as he spoke.

She walked into the living room, trying to avoid her dad’s gaze. It made him too happy when he knew Noah and Beaut were hanging out, and Beaut couldn’t explain why it was never going to happen.

You see, Noah was a werewolf. And there existed a decades-old feud between the werewolves and vampires—you know, like in the movie “Underworld.” Although it was scary, to her he was the same old tall, lanky, russet-colored Noah, and she loved him.

But not as much as she loved Gregory. Of this she was certain. After their chat Beaut got to work making dinner for her father, who was now sitting on a bearskin rug in the living room, wearing a loincloth. As she gutted the fish he’d caught the day before, the soft, wet insides of the fish mimicked her own softness and wetness, and her thoughts floated again to Gregory.

It was almost 6pm, and she knew Gregory would come to her room after she went to bed. Until then, she would have to keep her mind occupied with dinner, homework, and re-caulking the windows.

Beaut went to bed a little after 10. She was tired, but unable to close her eyes. She changed into the pink nightie she’d purchased at Victoria’s Secret a few weeks before, but hid under the covers. She wanted to tempt Gregory, but not too much. She closed her eyes and found herself drifting off to dreamland despite herself.

That night Beaut dreamed she was in the forest with Gregory. They’d gotten there quickly, her riding on his back. As they came to a clearing he slowed and lowered her to the ground. As she climbed down, they both noticed a wet spot on his back, where her vagina legs had been wrapped around him.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

Gregory grinned, the crooked smile Beaut loved. The fire from his liquid topaz eyes smoldered, lighting the embers that, before him, had died in the campfire of her heart. Even though she knew it would be trouble, she couldn’t help but want s’more.

“It’s okay,” he said.

He put his arms around her waist, and Beaut felt a giant throbbing surge of emotions. In one swift, confident movement, he lowered her to the ground and before she could catch her breath, her top was off, revealing her My Little Pony bra.

Gregory lowered his face to her neck, and Beaut instinctively lifted her hips. She could feel his breath on her neck as he took in her scent. He continued to move southward, and Beaut didn’t stop him. He reached her crotchal region love garden, and suddenly, Gregory turned angry. He looked up at her, his eyes turning red with fury.

“Beaut, why didn’t you tell me?!” He jumped up and walked away.

“I’m…I’m sorry…I forgot. I thought I was just spotting.”

Beaut had forgotten she had her period, and didn’t warn Gregory. It was always hard for him to be around her during her time of the month. As if the cramps, bloating, and fatigue in those 5 days weren’t enough for Beaut to deal with, she had to be separated from the only thing that mattered to her.

“Gregory, come back!!” Beaut yelled as she scrambled to get dressed. She couldn’t see him anywhere. She began to panic, and being the helpless twit she was, sat and sobbed, praying that Gregory would return.

Just then, Beaut woke up to feel an icy hand on her neck.

“Beaut, wake up,” Gregory said softly. She was shaking in bed, and he was worried. She opened her eyes slowly, making sure she was no longer dreaming. She smiled weakly. “Are you okay?” Gregory asked, concerned. Beaut sighed.

“I can’t even have all of you in my dreams,” Beaut answered, sitting upright.

Gregory saw her pink nightie and looked away, shyly. Beaut also became sheepish.

“You know if there was any way, I would—“ Gregory began.

“There is a way!” Beaut interrupted him.

“I can’t do that to you,” Gregory’s voice, which normally sounded like hot butter melting on a stack of iHop pancakes, became hard. “I want you to live. To have a soul. To not look like you’re going to a boy band concert every time you step out into the sunlight.”

Just then, Beaut kissed him, hoping her lips could change his mind.

They couldn’t.

So that's what happening folks. What do you think? It's currently slated for a Winter 2009 release.

AUTHOR'S NOTE, 10/19/09: Here's chapter 2!

I am Kevin Bacon.

These recent months of travel have further solidified what I already knew to be true: the world is getting smaller and smaller by the day. With Facebook taking over the world, and people twittering and flitting about, maintaining relationships is easier than ever before.

It also makes it damn near impossible to erase someone from your memory. I've found that the people I want to keep in touch with seem to not understand how to respond to emails and don't want to use skype (::cough::REDHEAD::cough::), but the dude you drunk pashed a month ago conveniently remembers your last name, how to spell it, and makes sure to get enough internet time to friend you on the ol' facebook.

I was first caught off guard a week ago, when I got a friend request from the 21-year-old Canadian I met in Darwin. You know, the one I made out with simply because I was bored and wanted to get the Weasley twin out of my system (it didn't work). He was a nice enough fellow, but there was no point in getting attached, and there didn't seem to be much going on upstairs, so I walked away with no dramas, and expected him to disappear into the ether. He'd asked for my last name and plugged it into his mate's phone, but what are the odds that a barely legal random you'd interacted with for a total of 4 hours would actually follow through?

Apparently, quite high. I believe his first wall post was: "hey, didn't think i'd ever find u, ty took your last name out of the phone, dumb ass. but then i remember u did comedy and i u tubed you, funny story. where are u now?"

The internet will be the death of me!!! I keep forgetting that in some circles, telling someone you're a "blacktress" is quite memorable--especially when that person is from Saskatchewan.

Just when I was done marveling at the spinning tea cups that are our small world, I was dealt another shocking blow of connections this very morning. Here's the go:
As you know, I was in St. Croix last week and met a random--the one who looked like Duane 'The Rock' Johnson. Last night I put up a few photos on f-book--you know, to incite jealousy in friends. In the background of a few of these photos was The Rock. This morning I get the following message:

Hi Blacktress

I'm a friend of one of your friends, and when she asked me to view your comedy video in AUS I added you as a friend. Just happened to open my FB home page and in your vacation pics saw a picture of my brother THE ROCK--he lives and works in St. Croix.. hes visiting NY now, just had a laugh about how small the world is. When he gets back from visiting friends I'll have to tell him. He'll laugh.

Hope you enjoyed your vacation! - Belle

Oh. my. god. I am the black female Kevin Bacon.

So, I immediately logged on to facebook (a nasty habit that began when I living on the other side of the world), and Belle happens to be online. We immediately start chatting, and I tell her about the drunk kiss and the fact that her bro was blowing up my celly this weekend, even asking to come to the stand-up show I had Saturday night. I am hesitant to tell her that he seems like a total toolbox and completely not good for me....until she brings it up.
Our convo went something like this:

Belle: Oh my god, this is too funny. I wish I could tell [our mutual friend] right now. I'm always telling her what a loser my brother is.
Me: hahahhaa, oh no! oh sweet jesus, i am starting off my nyc single life on the wrong foot.
Belle: Seriously. They should put up flyers around St. Croix, "do not kiss this man."
Me: I will do it. I will return to Pirate Island and warn other wenches.

[later, after more man-related banter, including her venting about her bro, I break out the TRUTH]

Me: Your brother is--no offense, I say this as an astute woman of color and writer who has kissed him on the mouth--a selfish man-boy who thinks of no one but himself.
Belle: you are my new best friend, lol.
Because it takes people years to see that about him.

Okay, guys, let's break this down: when a dude's own sister not only tells you he sucks, but then allows you to talk shit about him, you know you've dodged a bullet. I mean, this is out of control.
But also wonderful.
I'm going to start putting up pics of every potential suitor on my facebook page nad see which of my internet friends knows the clown. I'm sure one of them is bound to have some inside information, corroborating or debunking my beliefs. So far, I'm glad I trusted my gut and didn't return The Rock's phone calls. If he can't even be nice enough to his sister so that she at least lies for him, then you know he wasn't going to bring a damn thing to the blacktress' potluck.

My New Favorite Blog: Conversations With Deb

So, you know how I'm really into gchatting and not actually interacting face-to-face, right?

Well, I'm kicking it on the G-chat like the G(angsta) that I am, and notice a friend's new status message. I love when the status messages are links to huffington post and NYTimes articles, cause I am forced to learn about things and form opinions.

I love it more when they are links to viral vids or other blogs, as this allows me to further my procrastination.

Well, nothing could be better on a Sunday morning than Conversations With Deb. A collection of real-life ridiculous conversations writer and comedian Deb has had over the years, with a diverse group of people, ranging from bad dates to crushes to none other than Price is Right host Bob Barker.

Please know that all these conversations are true. It makes the laughter so much louder.

The Last Unicorn

It's Wednesday, and I leave the fair island of St. Croix tomorrow. It's been quite an adventure.
I anticipated quiet nights, but instead got Coors Lights.
I thought my disinterest in the male gender would emanate from me like a stinky pheromone, but instead I got hit on by a frat boy who resembled Duane 'The Rock' Johnson.

Old habits die hard.

However, I did discover a long-lost species of man that I thought had died. This is unsurprising, as many geologists, anthropologists, and mixologists discover species previously thought to be extinct when journeying to isolated islands. This man is no exception.

During my visit, the younger sister of KWalsh reconnected with an old flame from years ago, and came to us bitter old broads for advice.
"I don't really know what I want to do," she sighed, mildly confused.
"Well, what's his deal?" I asked, hoping the back story would enable me to give excellent advice.
"He was the drummer from last night," she reminded me. "He also teaches swimming to little kids. We have a great friendship, he's very honest and open, so I think it'll be drama-free, either way."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone, lady. You're telling me you've got a man who is creative, works with children, and expresses his emotions in an open manner, and you don't know what you want to do??

"Lock that shit down, girl!!!" I exclaimed.
This young, wide-eyed maiden did not know that what she had on her hands: the male equivalent of a unicorn. She was actually this close to holding on to something we'd all heard about, but thought wasn't actually real.
Until now.



"That bitch is a fucking unicorn," I explained to my young friend, who was still uncertain.
I mean I'd be proposing to the man within 3 weeks! (In fact, I've learned from certain redheads that failure to lock it down any sooner will result in him dating someone else and acting like you're a useless step-child of a woman.)

I can't remember the last time someone who possessed all those qualities made himself known to me in a sexy way, and actually stayed awesome after there was some P-in-V action. I'm about to make a documentary about this random and sell it to NatGeo (love that they abbreviate it--they're hip with the young people). Can you imagine the product tie-ins?
Unicorn Condoms (for his horn)
Uni-candy-Corns (Halloween fun!)
The possibilities are endless.

Speaking of unicorns and awesomeness, how effin' amped are you for Huge Jacked Man's new movie?! I am going to be in there like swimwear at 10:45am on Friday morning!! My need to see the movie opening day coupled with my dislike of large crowds, children, and talking during movies, requires I see it bright and early on the matinee tip.
I am totally gonna get prego at the end of it, I just know it.

Bea Arthur: Gangsta Geriatric

I have very little internet access on the island, so I was absolutely shocked when I hopped on the information super-highway just moments ago and discovered that Bea Arthur passed away 2 days ago!

As you all know, I am an old, weary broad. And Bea Arthur is my role model.

Look at her:

She is so sassy, and her shoulder pads give her the dominating appearance of a linebacker, which says 'don't fuck with me'.
It also says, "don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like BEA?"

Yes, yes I do.

The way she sulks about, that dry laugh, that beautiful baritone voice in which she chastised Rose for her stupidity, and tried to reign in Blanche's wanton sexuality. She is a strong black woman in a white woman's frame.

There are now only 2 Golden Girls left for me to idolize. This is very stressful for me. Luckily, Bea has left me pearls of wisdom to take with me for the rest of my life. Here's a little nugget from the great Miss Arthur:



Sniff, Swig, Puff. Done and done.

Dear American Airlines: Save the Drama for Obama

It's 2:17am. I write to you now from the Best Western Airport Hotel and Casino.

American Airlines can S a D. It is now, along with Delta, on my shit list.

In the last 6 weeks I have been on 8 planes, in 12 airports, and not once had a layover or delay...until now. And it's been more hardcore than I could have imagined.

I think you all know I have bad luck with flying. And while I always brace myself for some drama and foolishness, my recent rash of good luck on international journeys had me hopeful. Besides, my desire to get to the islands was so great, I figured I could will the airline into functioning normally.

Apparently, not.
It started off smoothly, although the Metrocard machine ate the $5 I inserted for my AirTrain ticket. I shook it off, trying to maintain the relaxed vibe I'd cultivated in my time down under. A seemingly long line at security actually moved quite quickly, and my 3-oz. bottles of lotion and shampoo were FDA approved. I only had an hour before my flight, so I did what any normal person does when they have time to kill: read 'Twilight' at the newsstand. Everything seemed aces until 4:35--the boarding time--rolled around.
"Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be a problem with the fuel pump, and maintenance is checking now. We don't know how long it'll be, but we should find out shortly. Boarding will not take place now."
Ruh-roh.

When they don't know what's up or how long it'll take to handle a scandal, it's never a good sign. 20 minutes later, chick explains that there will be an hour delay, making it impossible for me to make my connecting flight.
How will I get my groove back now???? I thought as I waited on line to talk to the attendant. Just then, another voice came over the PA, telling us a new plane would be needed, and we wouldn't be leaving until 9:15.

Current time: 6:05.
Awesome.

We finally get going at 10pm, and upon landing, a flight attendant informs us that there is a problem getting the door to the aircraft open, and asked for our patience. A chorus of moans ensued, and I had visions of the weird guy across from me staring at me with glowing red eyes before mauling me with his bare hands.

Airlines are so fucking annoying. You pay them alot of money. They make you show up ridiculously early and tell you it's for your own good. This you do after packing a bag so strategically that you'd have to be part terrorist to make it work. Then they make you wait on crazy lines and treat you like an unwanted third-marriage step-child by people who don't like their jobs, and then force you to take off items of clothing as they judge your sketch factor. If you make it through all this, it is their job to provide an aircraft and take you to a destination at a time that they've set, no less. But time after time, they disappoint and screw it up, providing lame excuses and no remorse.

Reminds me of every relationship I've ever had.

So now it's almost 2:30 am and I have 6 hours until my 40-minute flight to St. Croix. I'm going to take a quick shower and get some quick zzz's and hope there are no bedbugs. I will step off the plane bleary-eyed and confused, and demand a mojito. After a couple of those, this American Airlines debacle will be a distant memory.

Until then, I rant.

How Blacktress Got Her Groove Back

Whew, being at home for a week and doing nothing has really wiped me out. I mean, it's hard making a Qantum Leap, being socially awkward around people you haven't seen in 6 months, and trying not to throttle a mother who loves to butt into your life but seemed to have no interest in filing your taxes or at least filing for an extension on your behalf.

So I'm off to the St. Croix, in the US Virgin Islands, to visit my boo, KWalsh. We've been friends since uni, and I've waited 7 long years for this friendship to pay off in a trip to her island home. Finally I get to walk on sandy beaches, drink rum punch with an umbrella in it, and possibly mate with an angry young native boy.

You know, like Angela Bassett did.

Blacktress Fun Fact: I think this is quite fitting because, at the age of 12, I auditioned for a role in the above film. No, not as Stella, but as her sassy niece who she takes with her on one of her island getaways. One of the lines from the screentest: "What, auntie Stella? [she says coyly] I didn't do nothin'."

I was playing a 12-year-old when I was actually 12, but due to my height and boobage, I was told looked too old for the part--but trust me, I had the sass down pat.

So now, as I head off to JFK for my island week, I hope to get my groove like Stella and the Emperor* combined.

*You're never too old for a Disney reference. Besides, after that hobbit photo, I've got nothing to lose.

Cookie's Fortune

I went out to dinner with mamadukes tonight since we haven't had one-on-one time since I've been home and I head off for a week starting tomorrow. It went pretty well, as I have discovered how to get her to direct her anger and criticism towards other members of our dysfunctional family instead of asking me about my life. After our lovely Chinese food, we were given fortune cookies. Mine said:

I don't know what this means for my life. As if starting 2009 in an ambulance wasn't enough, now I can't even rely on Asian sweets to provide me with solace or advice.

I am Scott Bakula. And Frodo Baggins.

Blacktress' log, star date 21 April 2009.

I am finally back in the blogsphere. I'm sorry it's taken me so long, but seriously, guys, it's been hard getting my energy up. I feel like Quantum Leap's Scott Bakula, having shuttled through time, with a flight at 10am on Wednesday, landing in LA at 6am on Wednesday, and then getting to NYC at 6:20 on....THE SAME WEDNESDAY.
I am from the future.

Okay, maybe I'm not as cool as Scott Bakula--Sam? Can I be Sam?

It is now 12:45am on Tuesday morning and I have more energy than the hyped-up gremlins on my flight from Sydney to NYC.

Seriously. I'd like Qantas to rethink its new "Kids Fly Free" promotion. My plane ride was like a fucking Gymboree.

I'm really quite cracked out. After nice, low-key goodbye drinks Tuesday night in Sydney, I decided the best way to ensure that I slept on the plane (and didn't leave behind any of my stuff) would be to stay up all night. This plan was foolproof, as not sleeping often makes people fatigued. And sitting in an air-o-plane for 15 hours leaves little to do besides sleep.

I forgot that I find it impossible to sleep with a stranger only 2 millimeters away from me.
This left me with ample time to watch such films as: The Changeling, Rachel Getting Married, In Bruges, and Four Christmases.
Yes, Four Christmases.
I'll post some erudite film reviews soon.

I got home Wednesday at 7pm NYC-time to find that my uncle and his 4 children were staying with us until Saturday.
No, no one bothered to tell me in advance.

I wondered if Qantas had some promotion with my house--"kids fly free to Harlem" or something.

I know it's family, but seeing as I'd been on an aircraft for 22 hours and hadn't slept in 2 (maybe 3?) days, I wasn't in the mood for surprise guests.
I was even less in the mood to take all four children to the Museum of Natural History on Friday--which I had to do.
My 12-year-old cousin thought it was hysterical when I fell asleep standing up for a second and almost fell over the railing onto the elephant exhibit below.
The 7-year-old thought it was a great idea to take his dad's digital camera and then make me chase him around the dinosaur skeletons.
At some point during our outing I ducked into the women's restroom and tied my own tubes.

Friday evening, my plans to sleep were broken by the most exciting event ever--a surprise party FOR ME!! Can you imagine? My dreams of mauling my mates like Christian the lion came true, as the small but solid contingent rolled up to everyone's favorite West Village spot, 99 Below, for a "Welcome BLACK" party. I stayed up til 3am, feeling happy to be home for the first time.

My buzz was killed when, on Saturday afternoon, I called up the Weasley twin and learned that he is seeing someone in Canada.
Oh h to the no!
And, the best part--I had to ASK HIM if he was with someone! Can you imagine if I'd rocked up the Canadian tundra with fresh-baked brownies and the cutest outfit ever, only to be introduced to Sarah, boring girl who likes to climb trees?

I played it breezily enough on the phone (after all, I AM a blacktress), but I'm still a bit shaken by the whole thing--mostly feeling embarrassment. I mean, how do you have me come meet your parents, pack your damn suitcase (rollin' up your man-panties and everything!), and within 6 weeks in Canada find someone that you're WITH???
Clearly, he didn't appreciate me. I think I'm starting to understand why New York has her contestants sign a "blood oaf." (more on that here)
And on the phone, he had the nerve to chat like we're friends, even asking me if I met someone on my travels.
Wtf?! Look, mate, we are NOT mates.
I'm trying really hard to break the cycle, but sweet jesus, how many love-corpses must I leave strewn across this globe? This is actually getting to ri-goddamn-diculous!

Sorry. You can tell by my excessive use of italics that the wound is still fresh.

Perhaps, if I truly wanted to maintain the upper-hand and hoped for him to think that it was his loss, I shouldn't have put up this pic of me during my "Lord of the Rings" tour in New Zealand on the interwebs:

Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me????

You Know It's Hot, Don't Forget What You Got, Looking Back...

Nothing like Lauryn Hill quote to kick off a farewell post.

It is now 4:30pm on Tuesday, April 14. In exactly 16 hours, I will board a Qantas flight bound for NYC.
My feelings are as mixed as the drinks I will be having at my farewell jam in a few hours.

I got back from my 5-week journey on Easter--I like to time my resurrections with those of the Lord. I was taken in by Meg, who recently moved into a new house, complete with three bedrooms and a dungeon.
I kid you not.
Luckily, I wasn't forced to sleep there.

Much of yesterday I was dying to go home, frustrated because of the inability to get someone to drive me to pick up my luggage, especially when one friend had already offered, but then backed out by pretending like it wasn't happening. It really hit home the sense of helplessness I'd felt many times in Sydney, not being able to do the simplest things--like laundry, for instance--without paying excessive amounts, or asking someone I'm not really close to for a favor.

I know that, although the last thing I want is to shack up with my mother and her latin lover, I also can't wait to sleep in my own bed, not wear thongs--oops, i mean flip-flops!--in the shower, and come and go easily.

But today, as I ran errands around the city, I found myself quite nostalgic, and actually sad. The sun is shining, I was actually too warm in my long-sleeved top, and Sydney was beautiful--and I felt like I'd made it my place, in a way. I have friends here and know where to go, and have made memories. I also have six months left on my visa, and there is a part of me that wonders if going home is a bad idea. I just found out my main gay may be leaving NYC in mere weeks, and my sister from another mister is heading to grad school in the fall. Add to this the fact that I've spent 6 months being a total selfish loner, not having to do anything but stay afloat and answer to no one, and you have a blacktress with a deep-seated fear of returning to reality.

I mean, 6 months is nothing in the grand scheme of life. Granted, I missed a few births, engagements, a black president and a global financial crisis--but, you know, the bars will be the same, and the dudes I hate won't have gained the 50 pounds I hoped they would as punishment.

Will folks actually have missed me? I want my reunion to be like that of Christian the lion and his old owners. You know, like this:



Is that too much to ask? I just want to maul you with my LOVE!!

When it comes to Sydneytown, there are some THINGS I WON'T MISS:
-trying to get home after midnight and paying a crapton.
-paying for condiments. Seriously, don't you think it's sort of passive aggressive to sell someone french fries and then charge them 50 cents for a package of ketchup?
-explaining my hair to total strangers.
-hearing the songs 'Save Tonight' and 'Land Down Under' at least once a day. I mean, 'Land Down Under' in Australia?????????

But really, when I think about it, there are so many THINGS I"LL MISS LIKE WHOA:
-Sweet, sweet, Eli Reed. You began as a reader, and you became a soul sister.
-Oh, dear, dear Meg. You have taught me much about the side hustle, and the ability to be a rockstar.


Wedges with sweet chili and sour cream--the most unlikely-yet-heavenly combination in the history of cookery.

-Lemon, lime, and bitters. Best. drink. ever.
-Meeting random strangers on public transportation and then being facebooked by them.
-Telling people I'm a blacktress and not being asked 'where do you wait tables?'
-Suzy Q, who always tried to get me out of the house when I was depressed, and told me I should stay in Sydney. Her optimism is precious.
-Abbreviating every word possible.


-Sushi Train. Delicious, delicious Sushi Train. Above shows where I ate on the regular, including my last lunch in Ausland.

-And, of course, Aussie accents. I'm still holding out for my foreign husband!

Okay, off to dranks with peeps. Next posts will be the tales of my travels--soooooooooo worth the wait!

xoxo,
blacktress!

Wellington--not just a boot, but a state of mind.

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 28 March 2009.

Greetings from Wellington, N-Zed!!

I am totes crushing on this town. I got here after midnight on the 26th, and from the moment I stepped out on Friday, I felt the buzz. My stomach was doing excited flips, the way it does when I get excited about seeing someone I haven't seen in a long time. Even though I was walking down a street that mainly consisted of warehouses, I felt like I could get down with this vibe--I was instantly feeling Welly's flava. It's kinda hipstery, and reminds me of Melbourne and NYC's East Village, but people are actually nice. Take for instance, the clerk at the jeans store, where I was on a hunt for some cute black jeans--we chatted for 20 minutes, he helped me find the cutest pair, and even gave me a gig guide so I could see what's on around town. We also talked about Kanye West being cray cray, and I think if I'd stayed around, he would have proposed to me just so he could come to NYC.

I'm trying to hunt for Bret and Jemaine, my FOTC boyfriends, but it's hard. Mainly because most people think I'm crazy when I ask where I can find them. As I walk the streets of Welly, I think to myself, "This is where Bret walked as he wrote 'Ladies of the World'" Can you imagine?! As I search various thrift stores, I try to find those cool sweaters Bret wears with pics of wolves on them, but so far, no luck. Nothing says "you could be a part-time model" like wolf art.

Ozzies always make fun of the kiwi accent, but only now, after 4 months of Ausland, can I tell the difference. The Kiwi accent is hilarious to me, as 'e' becomes 'i' and 'i' becomes 'u.' Take for instance, this gem I overheard:
"I sint him a tixt. I was tixting and tixting, and he niv-eh risponded. He's bin' a total duckhead."

'Duckhead' = 'Dickhead' Although I really wish she actually meant that he had the head of a duck. That would have been a way lower blow.

Okay, I should stop being a table-nine, indoor kid and go explore this big wide world of Wellington.

Talk soon.
xoxo,
blacktress

Indestructible

So, I'm here in Darwin where it's already 90 degrees and humid at 9am. Claire, the love of my life and new best friend, has already left for a trip to Kakadu, and I'm left to fend for myself. I'm now finding I miss the Outback crew and the bonding that comes from near-death experiences.

I'm also missing the random '80s tunes we listened to on our 6 to 10-hour car rides. For example, "Gold," by Spandau Ballet, featured heavily in the rotation. It's the most amazing song ever. I embed it for your listening/viewing pleasure.



Nothing boosts the spirits like hearing that gorgeous baritone singing "you're indestructible....." after a 3.5-hour hike in the height of the desert sun.

Okay, off to the museum and more exploring. Tomorrow morning I head off to a one-day tour of Litchfield National Park, where there are apparently giant termite mounds and waterfalls for swimming.

I don't even know myself anymore.

Making it to the top of the top end.

Blacktress' Log, Thursday, 19 March 2009.

Greetings from Darwin!!

The last week has been crazy and awesome, full of randomness and excessive heat--temperature-wise, I mean.

After 6 days in the Outback, our group partied it up in Alice Springs, which is a pretty boring town. If it wasn't for Bojangles pub and the bottle of wine I'd treated myself to, I don't know how I would have gotten through it. Tuesday I was a hot ass mess, and I awoke to find myself being spooned by my Outback tour guide, a ruddy Aussie man who goes by the nickname 'Jesus.'

I guess you could say I woke up in Jesus's arms.

It was odd and random. Not only because Jesus had three beds in his room and there was no need for us to share a space, but because Jesus is betrothed. Nothing happened, and it was very PG--although his touch was surprisingly tender and he held me all night, which I don't know if I'd want my future husband doing with a nubian princess such as myself. There was no weirdness in the morning, thank god/his dad. This wouldn't be the first time I'd won the affections of a taken man.

I spent much of Tuesday nursing my hot mess of a hangover, hydrating and doing tons of writing. My flight out of town was Wednesday arvo, so I woke up bright and early, showered, de-sketchified, and headed off into the bright sun to see what Alice had to offer. It's quite a small city, and the main attractions are walkable enough.

So, you guys know how I'm really into reptiles, right? This means that the Alice Springs Reptile Centre was my first stop. As I walked through the exhibition, loving the cold-blooded creatures, I took note of all the venomous ones, should I come across them along my travels. As I walked through one section, I noticed this Olive Python was eye-fucking the shit out of me from inside its cage. It was really weird--totally one of those moments where I wish I could speak Parseltongue and figure out what the hell was going on.

In addition to its reptiles, I greatly appreciated the Centre's air conditioning, and just took my time reading placards and cooling off. While admiring a dinosaur fossil (yes, admiring), I was alerted to an animal presentation starting up. Suh-weet.

Maureen, our lovely presenter, showed us all sorts of creatures that we were then allowed to HOLD. I totally elbowed children out of the way and held a blue-tongued lizard, a horny devil (yes, a horny devil), and the Python who was staring at me. It was totally cool--I seem to have lost all fear since my journey into the outback. I was a bit wary of the massive snake, but he just slithered and it was all good....for a while.

As I went to hand it back to Maureen, it began to constrict around my hand.

My life flashed before my eyes. I totally knew there was a reason it was staring at me before--it was sizing me up for the kill. Being a constrictor, it's grip was deadly and I struggled to squeeze my hand out without making a scene that would scare the children. "Umm........" I said sorta loudly. Maureen told me to stay calm and or force the snake off, as it would feel threatened. I wriggled my hand out sloooooowwwwwllllly, and managed to break free--you can't put shackles on this blacktress, reptilian or otherwise!!!

Escaping death, I headed off to a couple other sights then went to the airport. There, I ran into this cool chick who I'd met in Sydney through a friend a couple months back. She's from Hotlanta and is totally a strong black woman in a white woman's body. We discovered we were seated in the same row--22A and C. We joked about talking over whoever was in between us.

When we got to our seats, we saw there were only seats A and C together. Talk about meant to be! We were obvi fated to be together, and spent three hours talking about dudes, travel, and fun times ahead. Her hostel was down the road from mine, and we met up and went out on the town last night. We landed at 7pm and it was still 90 degrees and humid out. Hot mess.

Darwin wasn't exactly popping on a Wednesday, and we went to the one hot spot, The Vic. The cover band was rocking ('Save Tonight,' by Eagle Eye Cherry, anyone?), and with $3 tequila shots, you know we'd basically gotten ourselves two tickets to the Shit Show. We ended up meeting some Canadian dudes, one of whom was 21 and tried to flirt with me. He was outgoing, had a full beard, and totally seemed older than me until he revealed that his age. I mean, wtf, Canadians--why must you always trick me?! He's from Sasketchawan, where I guess all the men are part Yeti and born rugged. I explained to him that, "I can't do anything with 21," and he got annoyed. Me and my new bff left The Vic at about 1am, chanting our new motto:

Darwin. My town. Love it.

Back from the Outback

I've survived the Outback, readers. It was gorgeous and intense, and the flies in Australia love to swarm on your face and you often feel like a feed-the-children baby, but it was worth every second.

I'm now in Alice Springs, in the Northern Territory, where my hangover from last night's debauchery at Bojangles, a honky-tonk pub has left me mildly immobile. I am vowing to really explore the city tomorrow, when I have some energy.

I only have 4 minutes of internet credit left, but just wanted to let you all know i'm alive. Pictures will be up in due time. Just imagine me in a huge backpack sleeping on the ground repeatedly, and then hiking in bad sneakers. Next stop: Darwin, the very top of the Northern Territory.

From the Mouths of Mates

One of my favorite people in Australia said this on the phone a couple days ago, and I've been dying to share. I think this may be not only the quote of the week, but the quote of MY LIFE:

"I'm just figuring out what I'm going to do as an ex-lesbian single mother of a half-Indian child fathered by a sugar daddy."

Fair enough, Meg. Fair enough. I think we've all been there.

I am really going to miss my Australian friends.

Different Strokes for Different Folks

Sunday, March 8, 2009.

I'm typing this post from the State Library in downtown Adelaide. It's been quite a long day, and it's not even noon yet. This could be due to the fact that I started drinking at around 3pm yesterday, and thought that since I had a 6:30am flight, I should just stay up all night.

Which I did.

I've been in a daze, and half-slept on my short flight to Adelaide. I'm rocking this backpack that weighs in at 13.5 kilos--about 27 pounds, I guess--and I'm already feeling it in the shoulders. I arrived at the YHA to find that check-in wasn't allowed until 1pm, so I have plenty of time to kill.

Everyone says Adelaide--known as the 'city of churches'--is boring, but I find that enjoying a city, much like ensnaring a man, is all about timing. It just so happens that the blacktress has arrived in the middle of the Adelaide Fringe Festival, a month of art and performance taking place all over the city. I instantly sat down with the festival guide and have already found some good stuff I want to see. Take, for instance, stand-up by comedian Arj Barker (from Flight of the Conchords). Or, House of the Holy Afro, which is billed as "A riotus African nightclub spectacular! Like the Soweto Gospel Choir on acid."

Two tickets, please!

Of course, in true blacktress style, I postpone visits to cultural sites and immediately hunt for free internet and an ATM, and find the streets awkwardly empty. I mean, for a big festival, there's no one around. I'm also unsure why stores aren't open....Am I in a scene from 28 Days Later??? I start to wonder as I roam.
Just then, I head to Rundle Street Mall, which is a strip of stores about 3 blocks long, and apparently is where all the cool (and unemployed) kids hang out. I wanted to stop in Wooly's, but it was closed. I was confused, seeing as it said it was open from 11am-9pm. My celly clearly stated 11:08.

What sort of town is this?!

I get to the library and sign up for 30 minutes of free internet. "You have computer number 5 from 11-11:30," I'm told by the lovely retiree who volunteers to keep himself active. I nod and smile, but am confused, because it's 11:15. How is this possible?
I go to sit at another computer while I'm waiting and the time reads 10:45. I'm utterly baffled. Where the F am I?

Just then, I remember a little fun fact I learned during my IEP orientation: There's a half-hour time difference between South Australia and New South Wales.

I kid you not. A half-hour time difference. This country never ceases to amaze. It's not even really a time difference so much as government-sanctioned tardiness.

Well, now that I've got that sorted, I'm less annoyed by my friend Justin because he's not actually late to meet me and show me around. This does, however, mean I'll have to wait 30 more minutes to stuff my face with lunch.

I'll let you know how I go in the City of Churches (and free internet).

Off Into the Outback

Blacktress' Log, Star date 7 March 2009.

I am in my room in Lilyfield and it's mostly packed. The two large suitcases I arrived with are filled to the brim, and my third excess bag has books and Buffy DVDs, and some shoes. I feel like I did the last couple days of college, when your parents take your stuff, but you still stick around for Senior Week in hopes of making out with your crush from Intro Psych.

Tomorrow at 6:30am, I begin a Sojourn unlike any other that Sojourner has seen. For the next 5 weeks I will explore this sunburnt country in all its glory. I will visit a glacier in New Zealand, sleep under the stars in the outback, and do all of this while carrying all my necessities in a backpack.

I am becoming a BLACKpacker.

My fear is palpable.

I've never just up and gone, and my lack of physical fitness makes carrying 20 pounds on my back as I trek a bit of a worry. I just feel like I'll be wearing a large sign that says "swindle and mug me, good sir"--and I'll end up with a herniated disk.

But this is what I wanted to do. I am dying to see the country, get out of Sydney, and really explore. And I'm not doing the typical backpacker route, which is up the East Coast all the way to Cairns, enjoying 6 weeks of beaches and booze. No, no--the blacktress is going into the middle, into the Northern Territory. Where the sand is red, the roads are empty, and the animals are deadly.

I am so frickin' nervous and excited!!!

I will start in Adelaide, the capital city in South Australia, where I'll chill for 3 days seeing the sights. Everyone says Adelaide is boring and that 3 days is too long, but one of those days will involve a winery tour in the Barossa Valley--you know how I love my wine! I also have an acquaintance there who will gladly show me some things, so that should take the edge off as well.
From Adelaide, I hop on a 6-day/5-night bus tour that will take me into the Northern Territory. Being the outback and all, travel is expensive and difficult, and driving is the only way to get around. Considering I'm a New Yorker who can't really drive, and certainly can't handle the wrong side of the road and 90-degree weather in a beat-up truck, this bus tour was the perfect way to see everything and be safe. We stop at Coober Pedy, a town that's underground because it's so damn hot in the desert (I wonder if it has an underground railroad?). It's also the opal capital of the world, and my mom has already asked that I bring her back something "unique."

From there we continue up north, stopping at all the major sights--Uluru, Kings Canyon, the Olgas. All this lovely nature-y stuff that I would never be able to get to or see on my own. I'll even be CAMPING, guys!! AAHHHH!! Under the outback stars!!
Yes, I bought bug spray.

I spend a couple days in Alice Springs, where the bus lands. I'm excited to see actual Aboriginals and learn some things about their culture in land they inhabit. From there I'll fly to Darwin, at the very very top of the Northern Territory, where it's the wet season and it'll be 90 degress with humidity when it's not pouring rain. They also have jellyfish warnings, so going into the ocean is not advised. YAY!!!

I plan to wrestle a crocodile while I'm there.

From there I'll fly over to Cape Tribulation, on the Great Barrier Reef. I will snorkel in an attempt to find Nemo.

From there I fly to Wellington, NZ, where my hunt for Bret and Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords will begin. I will also go on a Lord of the Rings tour unironically, and learn to speak Elvish.

For you visual folks, here's the route:




After 2 weeks in NZ, I will return to Sydney for a few days, before hopping on a Qantas flight back to NYC.

Yes, people. The blacktress is coming BACK(tress)!

So, this may be my last post for a little while--I'm going to be broke-ass, and paying $3-8 bucks for internet doesn't seem sensible. I'll try to find public libraries and keep everyone abreast, but don't be angry if it's few and far between. Most likely I will write a fuck-ton while I'm on the road and then put it all up when I get back. I'll try to take tons of pictures because I'm sure most of you will simply be amused to see me wearing a huge backpack. The photos will mostly be of landscapes, though, seeing as I'll be wearing the same clothes over and over, and end up looking a hot mess.

Wish me luck, and don't hesitate to email or comment. I'll need to know I'm not alone as I begin this journey.

xoxo,
Sojo

Is it OK to say 'vagina' in the workplace?

After Wednesday's magical show for the single ladies of Sydney, I got a call bright and early at 9:18am, from the lovely woman who MC'd and organized the show.

"Hey, Sojourner, do you want to do a 5 minute set tonight fr $100?"

Um, was that a trick question? Was I still asleep and dreaming? Of course I want to speak for 5 minutes and receive 100 bones.

"Um, sure," I said tentatively, slightly worried about this Caucasian's willingness to throw money away. "What's the catch?"

"Nothing," she said confidently. "My friend works at an ad agency and they were going to do a comedy thing, but no one in the office wanted to participate so they decided to get some professional stand-up comics to come in. She asked me and I'm just not in the mood, so I thought of you."

God bless her soul--she always thinks of a blacktress when it comes to a side hustle. Seeing as I'm about to start 5 weeks of traveling, every little bit helps, and I've never been paid to do stand-up. I can't believe after a few weeks on the Aussie scene, they already want to put the blacktress on payroll! I've never done a corporate gig, either, and you know I have no qualms--I will sell out like chinos at the GAP if you let me. And after Wednesday's success, I was feeling freer than after the Emancipation Proclamation, so there was no fear.

I call up my contact at the ad agency, a lovely Scottish woman who's really excited to "do something new with this month's staff meeting." The only thing she asks is that I keep it "relatively clean. I mean, we're a young, hip agency, but not too much cursing or dirtiness." Fair enough. This will be during business hours.

You know, I've never thought of myself as a dirty comedian at all--I'm not RAW like Eddie, or dropping F-bombs like it's Nagasaki. But check out my blog rating on your right--I'm NC-17! I do have a strong tendency to talk about Ps and Vs, and while I don't drop F-bombs, I certainly hand them out like candy. I'd initially planned to do the same act as the night before, but wondered if they'd want to hear about pee in a cup and "terri-FUCKING-fying" men.

I began to get nervous, trying to rack my brain of old material that wasn't NSFW. I arrived a bit before 5pm, and got a quick tour around. It was so like those funky ad agencies you see on TV, with bright colors, hipster boys trading ideas around a pool table, and cubicles decorated with quirky bits and bobbles. The agenc also represents a couple of beer brands, so apparently Thursday's the new Friday for this bunch, as everyone was already sipping before the show began.

They started with updates on the order of business from different staff members, and the creative director spoke for a bit. Apparently, the initial goal was to get each team to tell a couple jokes, and they'd have a "joke-off." Of course, no one wants to get up in front of their work colleagues and make them laugh, so that idea was scrapped--well, it would have been if not for one guy who thought he'd give it a go.
He had long stringy old-man hair in a ponytail, and had already had a glass or two of wine. He takes the mic and begins.
"So, no one wanted to tell a joke today, but I thought I'd be brave. I'm going to tell everyone my favorite joke. Are you ready?"
The audience was surprisingly receptive, so he went on.
"What sound does a baby make when you put it in the microwave?"
People began to squirm in their chairs. A few people dared ask.
"I don't know," he says. "I was too busy masturbating."

I kid you not.
So much for worrying about keeping it clean. Clearly this was a free-for-all and standards were low.

I got up and did some of the same stuff, but got a little worried about going too far over or under the 5 minutes I was asked to do--the crowd was laughing, but it wasn't the same buzz as the night before, and being under fluorescent lighting where I could see everyone's expressions stressed me out. My joke about not understand Ozzie slang kills every time, and afterwards, as everyone was leaving, one girl said, "Oh my god, you're hilarious. I love the vagina joke!!!"

Yes, yes, folks. The vagina joke.

I walked away from that event $100 richer, and with the knowledge that I will be forever known for saying 'vagina' in the workplace.

Blacktress, Corrupted

I am on a total high today, guys. Last night I did a short stand-up set at a bar in Darlinghurst--one of Sydney's most fashionable gayborhoods. The night was called "Girl, Corrupted," and featured female comics as part of the festivities leading up to Mardi Gras (March 7) that are taking place all over Sydney. Mardi Gras is a gay ol' time, and people have come from all over the world for the events and final party. Girl, Corrupted, was run by a lovely woman I've recently become friends with, and I was asked to do a 5-minute spot after a particularly successful open mic I did.

I was really nervous the days leading up to it, unsure of what to do. I've only done 3 shows here in Sydney, mostly because I spent the first four months freaking out about whether or not the Aussies could handle Sojourner's truths. Of course, once I finally faced the fear, it all went fine, although I felt a bit rusty. This time, instead of being in a dusty pub with an audience of 20, there were over 100 people and they'd paid $25 to see all of us--I had to be a credit to my race.

Last night's show attracted a mostly lesbian crowd, and I was worried the gays wouldn't appreciate my hetero nature. About half the comics were into lady love, and definitely stated their sexual orientation during their set.

I, however, chose to get up on stage and start singing "All my single ladies, all my single ladies...."

And it just went from there. Check it out, and leave feedback:

Is Sojo gonna have to cut a (Pagan) Bitch?

Okay, so here's the latest with the Weasley:

I sent him an email damn near 2 weeks ago and didn't get a response. Of course I've gone through the range of emotions: anger, denial, and now acceptance. Of course, running into his momface was a bit of a setback, and although I was trying to play it cool, I had to write on his f-book wall. I mean, I saw his mother. How do you not discuss this?

So, after my pithy and witty wall post, I awake to a long email in my inbox, filling me in on his life thus far. Sounds all well and good, until I get caught on this little tidbit:
am staying with two really interesting college girls....very "spiritual" one is a budhist and the other is the president of the Pagan society, needless to stay we have a whole lot of candles, they both had wicked tats tho, unreal...yesterday we had a really fun day together...
Notice the ellipsis after the "really fun day together"

AAHHH!!!! He's so having threeways with experimental college hippies!!!
Threeways by candlelight!
Threeways for breakfast!

Threeways for lunch!

And then a sensible dinner!

I kind of want to vomit and never get out of bed.

President of the Pagan Society?! Like, wtf?! I bet her name is Moonbeam and she makes him gluten-free muffins.

Am I overreacting?

I've gotta hit the road and distract myself. This is going to a dark place.

Note to Self

It is hard to not think about a certain redhaired man when you run into his mother while walking down the street in a neighborhood an hour away from where she lives.

Just, you know, FYI.

I just want her to like me.........

One ticket to the shit show/Be Careful Who You Cougar

I make all this fuss about needing followers and then take 5 days to put up a new post. I have begged you to come to me, then shirked my duties. I am behaving like a typical heterosexual male, and for that I apologize.

Basically, I've been coming home late and slightly stressed, and haven't really had anything blog worthy--or so I thought.

The first random surprise was last Sunday, when I received the following textual eruption:

[blacktress!] how r u?i nicked your no from jason,hope u don't mind,if u do dont worry, just don't txt back.howz life?what u been up2?sos bout other wk,i was a mess.simon

What the hell?! I was so confused reading this; it took me about 10 minutes to decipher the abbreviations before I could even assess who was sending it. I mean, I don't know any 12-year-old girls who like to abbreviate and have Lisa Frank posters on their walls--who could this be? Once I cracked the DaVinci Code that was the text itself, I still had no idea which Simon would be calling me and apologizing. I know one Simon here in Oz, but he's a random gay man I met at a bar who pulled out his iPhone and facebook-friended me on the spot. I haven't seen him since that fateful night, so I'm sure there was nothing "the other week" he had to apologize for.

I racked my brain for nearly an hour before I realized that Simon was the 20 year old I accidentally cougared it up with!!! OH EM GEE!!!

What was he doing texting me? Not only had it been over a month since our one and only interaction, but neither of us had a particularly good time. Besides, what's with the abbreviations?! I know he's young, but has he really not mastered T-9 prediction?

Once I realized who it was, I laughed wholeheartedly, and texted back, saying it was okay to say hi. After all, I don't dislike him as a person, and was very interested to see how this was going to play out. I mean, what excuse can you possibly have for falling off for a month? And why would you want to get in touch with me again after I scurried out of your home, getting a ride from your flatmate?

Unfortunately, writing back has led to a ridiculous series of texts that amount to nothing. I really don't like the concept of text message conversations, and it really gets my billy goat when people text back and forth. If you're interested in seeing me again, make it happen. Pick up the phone and ask me out for a malt at the soda shoppe like it's 1956 (only without the pesky racial segregation). Come to my home, state your intentions, and let's share a drink with two straws.

Do not text me all week asking we "what r u up2?" and "howz your wkend?" I don't really want to give you a play-by-play, cause we're not mates. Besides, what are you getting at? He clearly wants to see me again, but lacks the testicles to ask me. This doesn't really bother me because I'm still in mourning over my redhaired loss and so uninterested in getting embroiled in drama/getting my feelings hurt that even a silly 20 year old offers no hope for fun.

*****Note: it has taken me 2 days to write this post. In the interim, I went to The Colombian, a gay bar on Oxford Street, where I was told I was gorgeous 50 times, and "oh my god, when you smile you look like Whitney Houston!"
For serious. Luckily, he amended it with, "pre-crack Whitney, late-80s, 'I wanna dance with somebody,' so it was okay.
Anyway, the 20-year-old showed up at the bar. I will go on*******************

So, he rocks up with two of his English friends after a day of drinking at an outdoor music festival. I have no ill will towards him, so we do the hug and fake cheek-kiss and I meet his mates. He's clearly so wasted and I wonder how wasted I must have been the first time we hooked up. Other than a winning smile, he is a hot mess of a man-boy in every sense of the word. He says to me, "long time no see, stranger!" and then scolds me for not responding to his asenine texts. I explain my stance on textual eruptions, and he proceeds to ask me the same questions over and over: "When are you going home? What are you going to do when you get there? Are you going to miss Sydney?"

My friend arrives, and the club is so loud I'm able to stand 10 centimeters from him and explain to her exactly who he is without him paying attention. Her response:
"Um, he's gay."
I KNOW!!!!
"And he's clearly on a pill of some sort."
I KNOW!!!
Dude, The Colombian is like a Studio 54 wannabe 25 years too late. People are taking E like it's pez, and then getting overly touchy in a way that makes me fear for my womb. I mean, we arrived at 6pm and it was already full on--who starts using a hallucinogen before it's even dark outside?

My gal pal and I left, and I waved goodbye to the crew. We get about 3 blocks up the street when a flash of bright pink appears in my path. Simon has run after us!
"Wheerrrrreeee aaaaarrreee youoooooouuuuu going?" he asks, all strung out.
"Um, we're heading to another place, but we'll be back." I think it's okay to lie to people I don't really like when they are intoxicated, because they won't remember.

Content with this response, he leaves us alone. My friend looks at me.
"Total shit show," she says.
I KNOW!!!

Doctors, Greeks, and Hugh

Monday, 23 February 2009.

Oh em gee, there's so much to blog about, I don't even know where to begin. I'll start with Friday and see where that takes us. Okay, guys, I'm gonna get real with you for a second. Friday I went to the doctor cause I'd been having issues with my lady parts.
"Ew, blacktress, please don't go into a vagina monologue!" you're probably thinking.
I know, I know, TMI. But I have to tell you this craziness. Besides, I figure you guys know about most of the Ps in my V, so you can't be that squeamish.

Anyway, I go to the doc and explain the situation. She's kinda cold, which I absolutely hate in doctors--bedside manner is everything! Especially with a lady doctor. I mean, if I'm gonna drop my pants for anyone, medical professional or otherwise, I want us to have a chat and I want you to tell me I'm pretty. I don't ask for much.

After the debriefing, oddly enough she does not ask me to de-brief. She goes, "Okay, I'm going to have you take some tests at home, and then bring them back to me on Monday."
UM, WHAT?!
You want me to do my own medical testing?! Do I look like Doogie Howser?! Do I remind you of the sassy black attending on "Grey's Anatomy"? What makes you think this is something I should do? Besides, lady, what am I paying you for?!
This is what you get in a land of free healthcare.

Doogie would never make me do this.

She hands me two cups for me to TAKE HOME and pee in, and then hands me some kit and tells me how to go about putting a swab in my V, then closing it up in the sterile container.
Then tells me to drop it off at a lab.

Okay, look, I know it was almost 5pm on a Friday, but homegirl is still on the clock! I never in my life heard of taking a medical test home and then dropping it off, much in the manner of a pizza.
What is this take-home test nonsense?! Am I in 5th grade? Doesn't she know that if she gives me a take-home test, I'm going to cheat? (my desire to appear intelligent always trumps my sense of honour) Clearly I will swab my mouth instead of my vag and pour apple juice into my pee cup.
Just because.

I was so annoyed and baffled, and basically just asked her if I could go into the office's bathroom and do it there. She goes, "Well, it won't get the results back faster."
Um, paging Dr. Bitch, you're wanted in "GET THE HELL OUT!"
After all, they have to drop samples off anyway, and what do I look like on my morning commute with cups of urine?! One false move in the rush-hour crowd and it's pee for everyone!!!

So, I was given antibiotics and will not know the real status until next week. Good lord.

With yet another round of antibiotics to begin, I figure the best way to handle this is to get my drink on before I start a week of dry living. I headed down to Sidebar, my old plantation, and chatted with some staff and had a couple dranks.
Alone.

This is a big theme of my Oz life, but I'm actually getting quite comfortable with it--I'm becoming quite the strong black woman. I even go to restaurants alone. It's not so stressful being by myself, and I don't really care what drunken teen backpackers think of me.
That is, until a random starts talking to me.

I'd noticed this guy sorta staring at me for a while, but I didn't think anything of it because he was unattractive. I had been talking to some acquaintances for a bit and then was alone at the less crowded bar. Suddenly, he sidles up to me.
"Hello, where are you from?"
The backpacker's go-to opening line.
He tells me he's from GREECE.
Uh-oh, spaghettios. I think y'all all know how I feel about a Greek man.
He then follows up his opener with, "You drink alot."
Um, thanks for noticing my addiction, weird rando.
"No, it's good."
Why is it good?! It's not gonna get you anywhere! I think as I give him short answers, trying to silently explain to him that just because I'm alone doesn't mean I'm desperate for attention. I talk about my travel plans, cause that's simply fun for me, and he then goes, "Oh, I want to go traveling in two weeks, too, but I have no one to go with. It's hard traveling alone." He then suggests we travel together.
OH MY GOD. What's with Greek intensity?! What would make him think that was a good idea or an appropriate request? I get being a rolling stone, meeting people as you travel, becoming friends and having adventures. I do not get rocking up to a girl at a bar, telling her she drinks alot, and then asking if you two can go travel together.
Does. not. compute.
"Um, I'm gonna go over there," I said, before quickly running over to some people I only sorta know and asking them to talk to me for 10 minutes while the odd boy got the hint.
While with them, I talked about my redheaded love, which still hasn't died. It's both sad and tender.

I went home around midnight (cause I'm just that cool), and while on the bus home, I composed the following note to self using as a text message:
"I am watching the woman in front of me make her own topsy tail. Seriously, a topsy tail. Of her own accord. Ew. Then, not happy with it (thank god) she has her boyfriend put her hair in a ponytail. Is he gay? I thought to myself at first. I would never let a hetero male touch my ponytail. You've got to get the right tension, smooth out the bumps. You have to know me!"
Do you guys remember the topsy tail?



Then, later, I thought, "Why is a girl with a topsy tail in a relationship and I'm not?"

Clearly, I'm in a weird head space.

Sidebar: I'm watching the Oscars now (it's just playing here), and my eggs are getting fertilized just watching Huge Jacked Man's opening number.

Follow Me...Follow me to my bedroom

That's a lyric from a song by Craig David.
But that's not the point of this post.

If you notice, about a week ago I added a new feature: "follow this blog." I'm quite excited to see that I now have 10 followers, as I was unsure if anyone would end up flocking to the blacktress. However, my intense narcissism and God complex requires I have at least 12 followers, so I can call them apostles. As follower you'll say aBREAST of the blacktress's latest bloggery, which must be a good time. Since I'm not a daily pop-culture blogger, clicking the "follow this blog" on blogger lets you know when to spend your workday procrastinating, allowing you to procrastinate in an efficient manner.
Efficient procrastination?! WTF, blacktress?! you're thinking.
I just blew your mind, didn't I?

Speaking of followers, elite gay visionary/music reviewer/person who told me to start a blog in the first place--JJSiii--is up for the role of Queerty's music reviewer. You should definitely read his review (he's in the top 5!) and the other 4, then vote for him. Quite frankly, he loves music, isn't condescending or pretentious, and supports a blacktress-what better reviewer for a gay website?!

Holla at it and vote for him here.

xoxo,
blacktress with a god complex