Tales from the Crypt Vol 1

Hey friends!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

e) All of the above.

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

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

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

"I KNOW!!" was my standard response.

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

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

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

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

Gail applied this type of repetition and hyperbole to everything.

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

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

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

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

As always, gays save me from the darkness.

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

Read It and Weep

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

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

The word “sassafrass” was etched on the back.

I miss it so much.

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

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

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

Half of Detroit Can’t Read. The gist:

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm in a weird mood today, guys.

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

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

Thu May 19th

8:30 show - arrive at least 30 minutes prior

80 people, Content R

MC: 20 min

Middle: 30 min

HL: BLACKTRESS 40 m

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

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

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

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

I need you now more than ever.

Tuesday Snoozeday

Hey gang!

First of all, I'd like to apologize for my lack of bloggery yesterday. I was all set to wish everyone a Happy I'm Not a Mother's Day* but I was all kinds of busy.

The time is now 11:15 am.
I just had a camera in my nose.
What have you done today?

Dudes, I can't catch a sinus break! For the last couple months (well, since January, to be exact) I've had pain and pressure that extends from my brow bone to the back of my neck. Of course, my first thought was brain tumor, but a visit to a GP showed it was just a mild infection. I went back to this same doctor's office--but not the same doctor--about 2 months later because my nose was bleeding (gggguuuuuuuROSS!). As someone who's never had a nosebleed and loves to watch "Mystery Diagnosis" I was certain this was a tumor. The pain, the pressure, the erratic moods and uncharacteristic behavior (like gaining 14 pounds)--if that's not the work of an overgrowth of cells in my hippocampus, I don't know what is!^

This second doc, however--who didn't look a day over 28--said it was just irritation, and told me to get some saline solution.

Over the last two weeks, I've had pain, pressure, dizziness, and post-nasal drip. It was time to get to a specialist.

This morning at 10am I went to an appointment with Dr. Cory, a really pretty put together lady who looked like she was straight out of "Sex in the City" (but not Samantha). She came in and explained that she had a cold, which is why "I sound like a smoker." I asked her why she wasn't at home--should she really be near other people's mucous membranes at a time like this?
"My world can't stop for sickness," she says. "Too many things to do."
I hear that! She was clearly a strong black woman in a white candy coating.

I explained my symptoms and without missing a beat, she said, "Okay, we're going to put a camera in there and take a look-see." Before I could ask to see the birth certificate (my new way of questioning someone's credibility), she covered her mouth and nose with a surgical mask and sprayed my nostrils with a numbing spray.

Then, she reached for the camera.
A looooooooooonnnnnnnnngggggg thin chord with a tiny light on the end made it's way toward me like one of those evil creatures in Tremors. I was hoping the image would be projected onto a screen so I could see it, but the telescopic end was just for the doc to look through. Although the numbing agent made it okay for about an inch, as she reached up and back, I was convinced she was going to take a chunk of my brain. "Don't take the part that loves Jews!" I screamed as she wiggled the camera around.

She didn't.

So, turns out I have both a sinus infection AND allergies--in two different parts of my nose. How does that even happen? My nose is still numb and I can't smell anything.

As if this upstate work thing wasn't going to be rough enough, I'll be surrounded by nature and the elderly--two things sure to aggravate my nasal cavities--and I'll have a handler the entire time.

This means that I won't be able to hide in my hotel room if I get overwhelmed or bored, and I won't be able to send humorous blog posts. I'm going to be "live blogging/tweeting" it for work, but if you check out twitter.com/blacktress you'll find out the Sojourner Truth under the hashtag HowDidIGetHere

Okay, best get back to worky worky! I can't wait to get my prescriptions!


Oh, and in other news: The D has gotten so cold that even the elderly are gangsta.

For those who don't feel like clicking through, here's the gist:
Cops are hunting a pack of hat-wearing, gray-haired bandits who have made off with nearly $500,000 in a series of scams in suburban Detroit. Dubbed the "Mad Hatters" for their eccentric haberdashery, the gang of grannies is wanted for stealing credit cards and cash from unwitting shoppers across Michigan.

Maybe T-Baby's refrain wasn't so simple-minded after all. How the F&^% are they 'posed to keep peace when even the old broads are scamming folks?





*a new holiday I just made up. You can celebrate, too, by being remarkably self-centered, staying out past 10pm, and nurturing your dreams.

^I don't actually know what a hippocampus is.

Good Morning, Starshine!

Happy Friday, y'all!

The time is 11:44am.

I have been awake since 5:15.

Since then, I have ---

****Wait, this just in. I must share a phone conversation I just had with the organizer of the watermedia thing I'm going to next weekend.

Guy: So, either myself or one of our volunteers will pick you up from the airport. How will I know what you look like?
Me: I'm black--which should make me pretty easy to spot.
[silence]
Me: I'm 27, which also stands out among the watermedia crowd--no AARP card for me! [he laughs] And I guess I'm tall--5'8"
[He repeats it as though he's writing it down.]
Guy: Ok, great. Unfortunately, there's no nearby hotel, so we'll be transporting you everywhere.
Me: Can you guys just get me one of those Jazzy Power Wheelchairs and I'll just zip myself around?
Guy: [laughs for two seconds, then] No.
Me: Okay, whatever's best for you guys.

******
Why does Caucasia get so freaked out when I tell them I'm black and ask for a motorized wheelchair? I swear, if we can't laugh about this whole thing, what do we have left? I really hope these folks can handle Sojourner's truths.

Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah, been up since 5:15am.
Since then I've worked at a benefit breakfast for a religious-leadership organization that honored women who'd worked to bring positive change to the world. I checked in guests, asked people for tax-deductible donations, and generally tried not to fall asleep. It's not that I wasn't heartwarmed, but y'all, the last time I saw 5:15am, I was walking from a dorm room holding up my broken bra strap! Times have changed. I needed to go to bed.
I also reconnected with an artist-friend of mine, was asked to audition for a comedy festival, purchased really cute sale items from Urban Outfitters, and had some delicious organic egg whites.

Is this what being a parent feels like? By the time 10:15am rolled around, I walked into the office smug as all get-out (even though I couldn't manage to avoid entering Urban Outfitters and making a purchase when I was already 30 minutes late). As far as I'm concerned, the day is done.

What are you guys up to this weekend?

Legal Troubles?!

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Another Openin', Another Show

I haven’t been sleeping much lately, guys, so my brain-hole is a little slow today. Every time I try to sleep, my mind goes all a-flutter and I spend the night rolling over more than Rosa Parks in her grave every time a Tyler Perry film comes out.

To make up for my lag, here's a lengthy post. [Names have been changed to protect those with internet]

On 4/28 a friend of mine sent an e-mail asking if I’d be interested in hosting a burlesque show on 4/30. When it comes to my blackting career I never turn down a gig and told her to pass on my info. Thanks to the magic/horror of Facebook, within 15 minutes I was in touch with my friend’s friend, and Lydia, the show’s producer, who weren’t the same person. (red flag #1)

I send Lydia my YouTube link and within minutes I was booked. At the end of the email, she adds, “bring your favorite pair of high heels for the finale dance number!” (red flag #2)
I don’t do choreography, y’all. I hold the talking stick and makey the people laugh.

After staying in bed all day with sinus issues, I showed up at the “venue” about half an hour before the show started. By “venue,” I mean the girl’s apartment.

I walked in to a flurry of Caucasian skin, as ladies ran around in tiny outfits, applying mascara and practicing their moves. I just sat in an armchair and tried not to get in the way.
The only person who was equally useless was a 40-something guy named George, who had silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He gave off a grown-up-hipster-on-a-gluten-free-diet vibe, so I made chit chat and discovered that he was Lydia's roommate.
“So what do you do?” I ask. Really, I was wondering why he’d stay in his apartment on a Saturday night when his roommate’s having a burlesque show.
George takes a beat. “For a living I work in IT.” (red flag #3)

Okay, I’ve watched enough TLC and A&E specials to know when someone’s hiding a freaky secret. I asked him what he did for fun, laughs, for kicks. George looks me square in the eye, adjusts his specs, and says, “I teach rope bondage to couples, showing them how to engage in rope play. And I also do it for fun. I tie up women, men—mostly women—and explore the pleasure and sexuality in that.”
[I’m not even flagging that shit, guys. It speaks for itself.]

Oh good lord.

Before I could respond to this over-share, a young lady with nice boobs interrupted me. “Are you Starshine?” she asked frantically.
I am not Starshine.

Apparently, Starshine was the emcee, and at 20 minutes to showtime, still hadn’t arrived. (red flag #4) Meanwhile, I’m trying to locate Lydia so that I can find out when I’m going on and how long my set should be. I catch her in mid-sprint and she says, “30, 45 minutes at most.”
Um, unless this is an HBO special, I don’t think that sounds right. “No, not the length of the show-show--how much time do I have?”
She looks helplessly.
“Let’s say 8-10?” I suggest. She nods and waves me away.

At 10 minutes to 9pm, people start trickling in and the show’s nowhere near starting. The apartment was New York City huge—a loft with abstract art on the walls, brand-spanking-new hardwood floors, and an Ikea sensibility. Fancy, and all, but it was someone’s home. Strangers were putting things in the closets. I felt like I was in a youth hostel. A white-haired elderly couple walks in and heads to the kitchen. I take George’s seat so that I’m not in the way of foot traffic. He comes behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders (which are always tied in a Gordian knot). “Are you a drug dealer?” he asks.
Great, now this guy wants to get some heroin and start an orgy.
“You’re just really really tense,” he says in response to my sideways glance.
The buzzer starts ringing incessantly and I become the doorman, letting people in and directing them to take off their shoes, until 9:30—thirty minutes behind schedule, which is when the show finally started.

Starshine appears from “backstage” (the girl’s bedroom) and starts with a sexy opener: “Welcome to Ladies Night,” she says sultrily, trying to get them into the burlesque mood. “First off, the bathrooms are over to your left, down the hall. Tonight we’re guided by the rule, If it’s yellow, let it mellow; If it’s brown, flush it down. We have some lovely ladies for you tonight….”
WHAT?! We're opening a variety show with the notice that urine should remain untouched for as long as possible? What about silencing cell phones, a reminder to enter a raffle, or saving applause until the end?
This is when I realized that I needed to remember every moment of this night for blogging purposes.

The set list was as follows:

1. Starshine opening
2. Tango 1 – Lydia and a dude.
(quick change)
3. Tango 2 – Lydia and a dude—in different outfits.
4. Girl with a guitar, singing a song.

(quick change)
5. Lydia AGAIN—in a different outfit—doing a solo piece. It is an interpretive dance to "Walkin' in Memphis" which she dedicates to “all the workers.”
[NB: There have been three costume changes and Starshine has changed outfits twice. I do not know which workers she's referring to.]
6. Girl with guitar comes back again and does an original song.

[She is the best part of the show, and her voice sounds like she swallowed Etta James. I want to be her bff.]
Raffle-prize drawing—people have entered to win a sex workshop or a massage.
7. I come on and do stand-up.
8. Burlesque number.
*Random dude in the audience comes over and starts chatting me up, telling me how funny I was and asking where I regularly perform. Although I appreciated the praise, we were IN AN APARTMENT and he was talking way too loudly.*
9. Another burlesque number
[note: this is ALL TAKING PLACE IN AN APARTMENT. PEOPLE ARE SITTING ON THE FLOOR—EXCEPT FOR THE ELDERLY COUPLE, WHO ARE SITTING ON THE FUTON.]
10. Lydia COMES OUT AGAIN in a new outfit and performs a burlesque number “Teeth” by Lady Gaga. She is wearing a negligee and high heels, and smiles to reveal vampire fangs.
11. All the ladies come out—IN NEW OUTFITS—and do a group number to “In These Shoes,” by Bette Midler.


Did I forget to mention that this show cost $12 in advance, or $15 at the door?
When I asked what this was raising money for (since she’d already told me it wasn’t a paid gig), George said, “It's just for Lydia.”
Oh, really? You’re charging folks to come to your house, take off their shoes, sit on your floor, leave their valuables unattended, and probably exchange bedbugs while you do modern dance to an early-90s power ballad? I need to find some moneyed, non-actor friends who'll go to any lengths to support my art.

As much as the show was like something you’d see in a freshman dorm at a liberal arts college,* the crowd loved the blacktress. I was really flustered and not used to being in someone’s living room with 40 pairs of eyes staring straight at me. I also wasn’t sure if they could handle my truths, but a throw-away line about gentrification went over really well, and I loosened up quickly. I haven’t performed in front of a “normal” audience (i.e. not actors, comedians, or improvisers) in a while, and it was good to remember that regular folks aren’t so hard to win over.

After the show, a red-haired woman came up to me and gave me some love. I noticed her in the crowd because she was one of the few people to laugh at my joke about sister wives. “We were cracking up because I’m on a date with this guy and his girlfriends [that's no typo, guys], and before we got here we were joking about being his harem!”
I then spent the next 10 minutes following her around the room screaming “WHERE ARE THE SISTER-WIVES???”

I found them. They were sweet yet homely. It was just like TV.

The man in this equation was an Oklahoma transplant covered in tats, had a bar through his nose, and looked very much like he could commit a hate-crime. He quickly shared the story of his first black girlfriend (natch) and told me about how he was made an “honorary African American” in third grade. I was torn away from my real-life episode of “True Life: I’m Polyamorous” by a guy named Fernando. I had gone on a rant about the stand-up comedian/former marine/dating coach during my set, which spoke to his heart.

“I know that guy you were talking about in your set,” Fernando said. "We used to work together doing coaching."
OH MY GOD. Of all the burlesque shows-in-an-apartment, in all the world, Fernando had come to the one where I was doing a set. We went into a discussion about what a “nice asshole” the dating coach was, and I suddenly felt my entire night—nee, my existence—was vindicated.

I gave out my new business cards like they were candy, and Sunday night it came back to bite me in the ass. I got an e-mail from the Random Dude titled “Drinks?”:
I think the title speaks for itself. I'm the bald man from the burlesque show if you haven't figured it out :)
I enjoyed chatting with you and would like to have a chance to do it again. Normally, I call to do these kinds of things, but I'm currently out of the country. I'll be back thursday.
Wanna meet up on Friday evening?

Ah, memories of my slutty days, where this drunken bald man’s oddly formal email, complete with the intimation that he’s worldly, would have given me something to swoon about for days—and blog about for weeks. Despite the 3 minutes of my set that I devoted to my Jewboo, I still had to explain to him that I was off the market. I guess it’s good to know that I’ve still got it after all these years! It’s even better to know that I am not tempted to stray from Jewboo out of fear, boredom, the desire for a tall man, or a need for attention. Growth!







*(You know, right in the middle of second semester, when everyone’s talking about gender as a performance, and your roommate’s now going by the name ‘Zev’ until he/she can decide how to self-identify.)