Just Checkin' In

Hey gang!

Today’s been super busy. I had a show last night in the East Village and didn’t get home until after midnight. I didn’t eat dinner until 30 minutes after that, and, well, let’s just say that this morning I got to the plantation long after I was supposed to.

The show last night went well, although I was a bit rusty—hadn’t been on stage in a couple of weeks. I did, however, have a great time at the voiceover. My one line was:
I couldn’t find a hospital—forget about how I was going to get there.

I said this 50 times. I am not exaggerating.
Everyone was nice, but very brusque—they were just trying to get it done and move it on. The producer who booked me looked like the seamstress in The Incredibles, but was really nice.


I got there 10 minutes early, thinking that would give me time to get settled in, check my face, etc, but they were waiting for me when I got out of the bathroom! I got the “script” and went right into the booth. A lovely woman named Paula sat in the booth with me, giving me “a person to play to.” She looked just like Gena Rowlands, and I felt like I could trust her.

As I said the line, emphasizing different words each time, Gena Rowlands mouthed direction, such as “Slllooooooooowwwww,” when I needed to not talk so fast; “Toss it!” when she wanted me to ‘let go’ of a word; and leaning in when I reached a word that need emphasis. It ended up only taking 15 minutes, and when I told her this was my first job, she said, “Oh, you’re great!!!”

I wanted to tell her that I loved her in The Notebook, but I didn’t think it was the right time.

Today I got a call from an artist who is kind of obsessed with me. I met him over a year ago, and ever since, he likes to randomly call up and try to get published in the magazine. But instead of just selling himself, he insists on trying to inflate my ego. The thing is, he does so by saying things that are vaguely insulting and overtly lascivious. A couple weeks ago, during our painting event, he stopped by the opening reception. I tried to avoid him, but he made a beeline for a blacktress.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, pulling me away from the safety of my fellow staff members before I could even respond.
“Did I do something to offend you?” he asks. “Because you seem angry with me.”
“What?” I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Um, are we sharing a bunk at summer camp? Why is he trippin’ like we have some bond?
“You always call me ‘sir’ and seem to be so formal,” he explained.
“No, [Carl,]” I said. “I enjoy calling people sir, and I tease you because your ego can handle it.” [The man insists being called by his full name in all correspondence—middle initial and all.]
“Oh, I see. Well, you’re good. You’re a funny one.”
He then proceeds to introduce me to every artist that passes by, whispering to them after we shake hands. Finally, I call him out. One artist explains, “Oh, he just said how beautiful you were.”
Um, HR violation!
When the other guy leaves, Carl proceeds to tell me about a “Stunning, brilliant black woman,” I should get to know. “She’s just like you,” he says, leaning in. “I love a smart and beautiful woman.”
[Note: Carl wears large round glasses and looks like a science teacher from the 1980s. He is a close talker and his breath often smells of red wine and patchouli.]

Oh, and did I mention that he also told me he has “an honorary brother card”? Of course, I demanded he take out his wallet and show it to me. All he could scrounge up was his discount card to an art-supply store.

So, when he calls me up today, he begins with a discussion of how talented I am. “I recently saw Robin Williams on Broadway,” he says. “And he’s got 5 speeds. You, you’ve got 10. Whoopi’s got 20, but you’ll get there.”

This man has never seen me perform. I am not at all interesting at work functions. I certainly don’t think comparing me to either Robin Williams or Whoopi Goldberg is appropriate or even flattering, because it’s so far off and based on so little information.
He ended the conversation the way he always does--by telling me how “impressed” he and his wife are with me. I think this has something to do with being “well spoken.”

Follow the Sound of My Voice!

Hello My Darlings!!!!*

(*I mean that in the wholesome-super-excited-you-are-my-favorites! kind of way, not the creepy, Lady Gaga, clap-for-me-I'm-Tinkerbell kind of way.)

How was your long weekend? I love a good celebration of freedom as much as the next abolitionist, but I must say, getting amped for America isn't really my thing. I find fireworks somewhat boring, the sound of explosions puts me on edge, and, although I will happily attend a stranger's barbecue, I am not eating meat some rando purchased from god knows where at 50% off.

Yes, I'm high maintenance.

I mostly just chilled this weekend, and just as it started to feel like a bit of a vacay, the weekend came to a close and the Sunday--or, in this case, Monday--Shakes started to roll in. I am, however, in a really good mood this morning, primarily because.....I AM RECORDING MY FIRST VOICEOVER GIG AT 2PM!

Did I tell you guys I was taking voiceover classes? This has been going on for about 3 months, so you certainly should know, but then again, there's nothing racist, awkward, or dramatic about it, so it may not have crossed my mind as a blogging option.

I've been taking lessons with a strong black woman who wrote the book on working as a voiceover artist--literally, she wrote the book:

And she even got Niles Crane to do the Foreword! This woman makes it happen!

She's been in the biz 20 years, is really nice, and she's a strong black woman. She's like a supportive Vanessa Williams figure, guiding me through the unknown land of voiceover, helping me get over my fear of failure and need for perfection, laughing whenever I ask her to adopt me, and getting me gigs! The lady's paying for herself, and I don't even have my demo reel yet!

This gig came through one of her other students, who was asked if she knew an African American voice talent for a non-union radio spot. On Wednesday I sent along my one and only clip--something I'd recorded for my job (you know the plantation puts me on double duty with no compensation), and my comedy reel, thinking it was no skin off my teat to attach a file. I didn't expect to get it, considering there was nothing "ethnic" about my voice, and the promo wasn't at all what they were looking for.

So you can imagine my surprise when I got a phone call Friday morning, saying I was booked!!!!

Best. Friday. Ever.

It's a health insurance ad for regional radio in the Midwest. I've got one line, I'll be in the studio for 30 minutes, and I'll be getting some hundreds of dollars!!!! Y'all, this might become my new dream. Voiceover is hard to break into, but lucrative as all get-out. When the producer called, she told me the price as though I'd be offended. "It's just one line, I know, but you're still important!"

Um, for half an hour of work, you're paying me more than I make in 2 days of toiling for former DQ massa. You don't have to remind me that I'm important!!!

That's at 2pm today. Of course, my biggest concern this morning was what to wear. I know, I know, this is for radio--and boy, don't I got the face for radio! (har, har)--but I still gotta bring it on: all or nothing, you know?

How are you this fine Tuesday morn?

What a Difference a Gay Makes

Hey friends,

I come to you tonight blogging about an ice cream cone I had today.
Yes, an ice cream cone.
An ice cream cone so delicious, so decadent, so... fierce, that I have to share it with you all.

I got word that the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck was parking near the plantation today, and I made it my job (you know, one I like) to be there. I'd never been to the truck, but I'd heard and read about it. I figured with the right to marry, the New York truck would be in top form.

The Big Gay Ice Cream Twitter verified their location (just 4 blocks from me), and said "something's going to happen" at around 3pm. I disregarded that--although I secretly hoped it would be a free ice cream giveaway. When I got there at 2:50, the line was surprisingly short and moved relatively quickly. About 10 minutes into my wait, a tall man in sunglasses, followed by three cameramen, walked up and took a spot at the back of the line.

My first thought was, "this must be some sort of ice cream flash mob." Clearly I don't really know what a flash mob entails.

When I got up to the front, I was immediately overly familiar (natch), assuming that, as a young, gay, ice-cream-making entrepreneur, Doug Quint already understands that he's my spirit animal and remembers me from a previous life.

"What's with the paps?" I asked regarding the cameramen. "I feel like Suri Cruise!"
I don't know why I said that. Gay visionaries make me nervous.

After perusing the menu (who are we kidding? I memorized the menu on the website before I rolled up), I chose the Monday Sundae. Guys, let me break this ice cream cone down for you:
1. You take a waffle cone and line it with Nutella.
2. Inside this Nutella-lined cone, you squeeze in some chocolate-vanilla-swirl soft serve. (you know even my desserts are interracial!)
3. You then top this swirl with ribbons of dulce de leche.
4. Then, to be really classy, you sprinkle just a hint of sea salt on top of that.
5. AND THEN apply a whipped cream halo. [get your mind out of the gutter!]

I think you need a visual:
And, if you're a real glutton like me, you ask for graham cracker crumbles on top.

In my defense, I'm not a fan of dulce de leche, so I asked if I could substitute for grahams.
"Mmmmmm....no," said Doug after a moment's pause. "How about you have it the way it's made and I'll put graham cracker crumbs on top?"
I know better than to argue with an elite gay visionary. And I'm so glad I didn't--that dulce de leche was the shizz. I'm officially calling it dulce de lechheeeeeyyyyyy !!!!

I try to hang back and see what the cameras are about to catch. Turns out the "tall guy in sunglasses" was none other than top chef, TV star, author, and food critic/writer Anthony Bourdain.

Now, I don't have much time for the Travel Channel (unless someone gets a mysterious disease while dining in the Congo), so I'm not hip enough to recognize Bourdain in person. I will say, however, that I'm his new #1 fan. Bourdain got to the back of the line and waited just as patiently as everyone else. And when he got up to the front, he ordered The Salty Pimp.
Yep, The Salty Pimp.
Gotta love the BGICT and Bourdain's style. Tony's a real salt(y pimp) of the earth, a good egg--probably poached with a drizzle of hollandaise, I'd imagine.

I Don't Even Know What This Post Is About

I’m so damn tired, I feel like a shell of myself. I’d love to write a lengthy post about my latest obsession, but I just don’t have my usual joie de vivre. I’m worried I’m slipping into a depression, as evidenced by the fact that I spent time looking through my facebook friends to see who was married or engaged. I don’t look at the wedding photos (feels a bit too Rear Window for my taste), but as I sit at my computer, wasting time by focusing on other people’s lives and seeming bliss, I also start asking myself things like, “how do they do it?” and “why is my existence a sham?”

See above, re: depressed. I think a humorous comedian—and a true gay visionary—is in order.



I will, of course, share in the excitement over the legalization of gay marriage in New York City. I have been prepared for this day for quite a while, and have already sent my main gays a list of songs I am prepared to sing at their nuptials. For those who I was unable to text, please review the choices below.

At Last, by Etta James
Somewhere Over the Rainbow, by Judy Garland
Love Game, by Lady Gaga
The Boy is Mine, by Brandy & Monica (note: will not be sung as a duet)
Anything by Ben Lerman

In other news: I just got a glorious hand-written letter from a subscriber to the mag I work for. Please see the excerpt below:

"This issue was a let-down from start to finish. ... All I can say about this issue is that it made me feel nauseated. How spiritually depressing can you get? .... I finally got to the portrait. This was the crowning blow. This painting really takes the cake for horror image of the century. Again, dark and heavy, and that one distorted, wet-looking eye made it even more scary."

She closed the letter with her web address and attached a business card. As much as I'd love to link you up, I can't let a woman named Esther get me fired. If you email me at madblacktress (see top right), I'll send you a link.

This is almost as good as the psycho who emailed last week about a link to a free download:

Would someone care to send me the link for the "free" tips? Or is this a scam since the only links here lead to a "buy a subscription form" which gives you the first issue for free provided you can cancel in time.

I don't play these bullshit games. Give me the damned link directly.

No, I will not go away. Yes, I will be a pain about this. These are money games that I detest. If it's something free you want to give to people, damn well give it to them, don't play these damned games. The only way you're going to get me to stop bothering you is to give me the link to the "free" product.

HOLY SHIT. How can you get this angry over some painting instruction? Guys, if I fall off the blogsphere for more than a week, send out the dogs--one of these crazy artist bitches has me in their basement and is using my skin to extinguish cigarettes.

Greatest News Ever

Praise Black Jesus--There's a new black genius!

I am very excited about this genius teen--and she was homeschooled by a single father, no less. I hope she enjoys her education and opportunities before Tyler Perry tries to buy the rights to her life. She speaks Swahili, Arabic, and Spanish. Y'all--this girl is the future of our country.

I really want to be her big sister. I could teach her what to look out for in Connecticut and discuss June Jordan while we make s'mores on the stovetop.

I think my favorite part is the dad's comment on raising a genius, which the reporter uses as her closer (good work, Tanyanika):


"She tries to outthink me all the time," he laughed. "She's quick with it. You have to be sharp. She has me drinking ginkgo on the regular."


I'm about to get over to GNC right now!

Happy Friday!

Who's the Boss?

I recently went to a work event to kick off a weekend of mag-sponsored activities--yay? Massa is quite excited, because he'll get to hold court among the artists of the day. Although he puts on a great show (he is, after all, a former drag queen), I will always know him as the man who looked me square in the eye yesterday and said the following:

“I tell you, if I liked Asian boys, I’d be done! They were so into me this weekend. I was out dancing with my friends and every time I turned around there was a little geisha boy. I was like, 'Back up, honey, I'm just here to dance.' Those Asian boys never give up; it’s a part of their culture—trust me, I was an international student advisor at [school he taught at]. Think about it: there's so much bureaucracy in their governments that 'no' just means 'try harder.' Those boys don’t hear ‘no.’ One boy said [in mock Asian accent], ‘You old, but you nice.’ Maybe I should get that tattooed on my chest: old but nice.”

Um, how about "Old but cray"?

Show of Shows

Hey internet friends!

As you know, I spent the weekend celebrating my new lease on life, and already had two stand-up shows booked for the weekend. I’m gonna skip the first and go right into the Saturday night show because I only did it so that I could share it with you via blod.

Remember that awesomely random burlesque show I did a couple months back? Well, the blacktress was so well received that I was asked to do the next one. As you know, that show was out of control on many levels. Knowing what I was in for this time around, I replied with a resounding YES—simply for the blog fodder it would provide. As you also know, child (WH)actor Haley Joel Osment is a huge influence on me, and like him, my primary goal is always to pay it forward.

Saturday’s show wasn’t exactly like the first one. First of all, instead of taking place in Lydia's apartment, it took place in a yoga studio (step up #1?). The rope-bondage guy was working the sangria table, and there were 10 folding chairs, a futon (covered in green satin fabric, no less), and faux-ethnic Pier 1 Imports pillows for sitting.

Nope, no need to adjust your specs; you read it right—15-25 people paid $12 in advance, $15 at the door to watch a 'burlesque' show in a yoga studio. I showed up just 10 minutes before the advertised start time, knowing what awkward sitting around I’d have to do, and I was still 40 minutes early.

That’s right, folks—show started damn near 35 minutes late.

I feel like I can't do the insanity of the evening any justice. This time, knowing I'd need someone to corroborate my story, I invited my friend Dana to come with me (don't worry, I'm not the worst friend--I got her in for free). I told her it would be cray, but I don't think she was prepared, and unfortunately I had to "stay backstage" (ie: in the smaller studio adjacent to the "show area") for much of it, leaving her to watch and fend for herself. Below is her retelling of the summer-themed burlesque show--it captures every moment with the innocence, honesty, and freshness of a child.

[To give you a bit of background (and because I wish you could hear her tentative, sweet voice as she tries to stay positive): Dana is soft-spoken, new to New York City, and a musician--dance and comedy isn't exactly her wheelhouse.]

"I was actually really excited, because I'd never really seen burlesque. But then, it was really odd.....wait, what was the first act?

Oh, yeah, that girl singing 'Summertime' in her piercing soprano voice. That was so strange, because I thought she was going to do a dance at first ... because nothing was happening and she was just standing there waiting for the iTunes instrumental track.

[I interject, reminding her of the summer theme, and suggesting it as the reason behind the musical number.]

"Oh, it was supposed to be all about summer? I guess it makes more sense now. .... I don't even know how to describe it.

"You missed the hula part, which was really, really weird. It was the girl whose show it was, right? She was wearing a long ankle-length dress with a really busy pattern, which was weird for hula. she kept doing all of these weird crouching moves and it was ... long ... that song was just so long. I don't know, I can't describe it....

"There were so many issues. Like, how could you not lip sync properly? Granted, I've never tried to take my clothes off at the same time as lip syncing, but you invited all your friends over and made them pay to watch you lip sync and you can't get that part right? That's not right.


"And that one that got completely naked--the girl at the end--she got out of the geisha robe, then put on a vinyl dress, but she got herself so oily in between that she couldn't zip the second one up, so it was just even more awkward.

[I interject yet again--I thought the zipper broke?]
"No, I think she was oily.

"Then that girl who did the burlesque to that song from The Little Mermaid--it was funny cause she was trying to make it kinda raunchy. Like...i don't know. It was actually one of the better ones, though.

"The whole thing was incredibly uncomfortable, when the emcee--Starshine? Is that her real name?--when she came out. That was pretty bad. And I do this thing that I get from my mom--like, when I'm watching a live performance that makes me uncomfortable, I make an encouraging face, which isn't really encouraging as much as weird. And I just did that the whole time she was on.


"The guy next to me was talking to me--he was shy and awkward and weird, but nice--I think because he was by himself. He kept asking me who I knew, and I said I was friends with the comedian, and he thought that I meant Starshine and looked so offended. Then I corrected him and after your set, he was like, 'Oh, your friend's funny.'


"I don't know. It was kinda like a talent show you'd do with your friends in your parents' basement, but adult."


Nothing in the above synopsis is made up--doesn't Dana just seem shaken by the whole thing, still reeling when prompted to discuss two days later? All of the aforementioned performance pieces took place. The only consolation was that this time, show producer Lydia only did two numbers--the hula and a cowboy-themed burlesque--leaving "the workers" to fend for themselves this month.

However, seeing a buck naked hairless woman's vagina was not what I signed up for, and it took the insanity into a different stratosphere. As this unnamed woman bent over coyly, exposing her birth canal, all I could do to keep calm was remind myself that after my set, this woman had told me I was "hilarious." She couldn't be totally mentally ill, as she clearly has good taste in comedy. But I just don't think I was supposed to see her cervix.