The Legend of Blacktress Vance

Oh good god--I've been away from the blogsphere for a little over a week and Google's found another way to change it up. I logged in and don't even recognize the dashboard or the "new post" page. If this ends up being entirely in Wingdings, my apologies.
Of course, if it's in Wingdings, you won't even know I apologized.

Guys, it has been a c-c-c-Cau-CRAZY week! On the 19th, Jewboo and I signed a lease on an apartment in Harlem, taking our realationship to the next level and gentrifying 7th avenue, which is one of the last holdouts of--I want to gag--the area the realtors have dubbed SoHa (South Harlem). Basically, we decided to challenge Bill Clinton. Bill, I see your office building and raise you an interracial, interfaith couple with a pet that is struggling to manage his obesity.

We are the new face on Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.

Speaking of being a new face (nailed it!): Last week I had two evening work events that really showed how far we haven't come. I went to both with my boss, who is even more cray when you have to deal with him one on one. Thursday night I was basically the Bagger Vance to his [Whatever Matt Damon's character's name was]--only without the moral lessons and new-found mutual respect. We were at an event where I was the only brown person not holding a tray and the average age of the attendees was 70. It was "old money" personified. There was one dude there who was 101 years old. Y'all, he was in a wheelchair being pushed by a slightly younger although equally geriatric woman (who was referred to as "the second wife that everyone calls a gold digger"), and I swear to you that at one point she wheeled him toward a wall and the panel opened and he was ushered inside.

Um, WTF?! Is he a hobbit?? Or perhaps a crypt keeper? Or was he part of a secret society of influential white males who have been granted eternal life???

Needless to say, I was out of my element.

After all my time inside Caucasia, though, I'm totally content to stand around and not talk to anyone while still looking approachable. However, I found it rather awkward when people I've met--and even written about--repeatedly didn't acknowledge my presence. I was getting Zen about it when two men approached my boss to chat. My boss introduced me to them and I jogged one of the guy's memory. The other didn't look at me. My boss then comments on the two men's colorful ties and makes a big production of saying that they're FIERCE! "We should just put you two at the door and you can blind everyone!" he said.
Then, the dude who doesn't acknowledge me points his thumb in my direction and goes, "With this one, we've got the whole rainbow!"My thoughts came in this order?
1. "This one"? Oh, so you can see me and have just chosen to say nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?
2. Wait, does he mean....?
3. No, that can't be--that's not even funny, even if he was trying to make a joke.
4. I'm wearing a cream-colored dress and a black sweater, so he can't have been referring to my clothing. He had to have been referring to the color of my skin and not the content of my character.

I bet he'd be terrified walking the streets of SoHa. God, I hate people.

I really would have had a better ending to this (complete with how the man "graciously" invited me to his Connecticut home as though I was a baby Zahara.) but I came back to this post about 8 hours after I started it and now I'm sucked into the maelstrom that is the Ikea website.

I heart you. Bear with me--we'll be out of this madness soon and I'll be bLack!
xoxo,
blacktress!

This is Getting Ri-Goddamn-diculous!

Hey friends,

I arrived on the plantation today to find many emails in my inbox. Other than the usual Groupons and SPAM, there were emails from random "brokers" and "apartment owners" on craigslist asking for way too much information before setting up an appt to view an apartment. That's not the point of this post, though.

At the very top of my inbox was an email--nay, I'll call it an ALERT--from Scribe about the latest happenings inside Caucasia. It included a link to the following news item:

Look at all their smiles.....I feel like this is a nightmare from Kunta Kinte's Book of Dreams.*^

Her email was titled, "some cray from CauCRAYsia"--certainly an understatement.
For the full story, click here.

Less than six months ago I came to you with news about Sweden's racism. It pains me to be repeating myself, but I can't hide this racist light under a bullshit bushel. Guys, this is the minister of culture shown here.

In an attempt to get more information, I've been reading comments about the article. No, not because commenters are geniuses--or even articulate--but because I want to get a sense of how this is being received in the country in which it took place. Here are some interesting nuggets:

Wanggren writes:
Liljeroth is a member of MODERATERNA, the Swedish conservative party, not 'the left'. She's pretty much the opposite of 'the left' in all possible ways. It is currently the conservatives who are in majority in the Swedish government.

LiberalenDieter says:
The true racists are those who care about the skincolor of the cake. If you aren't a racist and sexist, you just see human beeings and don't care about skin color or gender.

An American gal (and likely liberal-arts-college graduate) speaks truth to power:

The reason why this is something to complain about is because of how historically marginalized peoples have been negatively portrayed in the media as comical and savage subhumans. The minstrel figure has long been utilized to degrade certain groups of people. Also, as a woman, she should understand what a degrading, oppressive, and misogynistic practice genital mutilation is, and thus, she should be ashamed for making light of such an atrocity against women's rights.

To which a Scandinavian fella replied:

You are a brainwashed one, aren't you?

[Good lord. This one probably thinks that slavery and the Holocaust never really happened and is a huge Mel Gibson fan.]

Here's a particularly incendiary back-and-forth:

Another commenter writes:
Sensationalist rubbish. Seriously... Its an art day. Grow up. Talk about twisting a story to sensationalize it.

Um, I'm not clear on how the fact that this is part of "World Art Day" makes it less offensive and inappropriate. I mean, guys--a bunch of white people smiling over an African cake as they devour it just takes the idea of "consumption of the other" to a while new level. Regardless of intent, implications can't be denied. These are supposed to be a group of educated--and decision-making/policy-creating people. I refuse to believe that nobody on staff said something. I imagine it would have gone something like this:

[Anyone With a Brain taps higher-up's shoulder, interrupting a conversation between him and another person.]

Anyone With a Brain: Lise. Jorgen. Um, the World Art Day cake arrived a few minutes ago.
Lise: Great!
Jorgen: Wheel it out!
AWAB: I....don't think that's such a good idea.....I know this is meant to be a work of art, but I think that this is going to be bad publicity.
Lise and Jorgen: Why?
AWAB: It's a cake depicting an African woman--or some sort of traditional tribal statue.

Lise: Oh, that sounds so creative.

[A beat. AWAB wonders how to proceed.]

AWAB: The inside is red velvet.
Jorgen: I love red velvet cake!
AWAB: But don't you think it's a bit....gauche?
Lise: Well, is it masterfully executed?
AWAB: It is--which I think is part of what makes it so off--
Jorgen: Nonsense! I'm sure that, after submitting multiple budgets for this event, selecting an artist to create the cake and going over his plans before giving him the go-ahead to make it, the creation is completely in line with the event and the goals of our organization. In fact, I think it would be even more fitting if the minister of culture was the one to cut the first slice!

Lise: I love it! I'll make sure to get tons of media coverage.

[Anyone With a Brain slinks off, clearly uncomfortable.]

*now in paperback. Soon to be directed by Ed Burns.

^This is not a real thing.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE"

That's what popped up on my phone when I tried to check my email during breakfast this morning. Usually it just says "connection lost" or something equally generic--it's like it knows I'm a hot mess.

I've been off the grid because Jewboo and I have begun apartment hunting. This has meant that every waking hour is spent on the internet looking for a place to call home and then running to potential spots at a moment's notice. I'm trolling on craigslist with the frequency of a convicted sex offender and getting as disappointed as a fella who requests an Asian prostitute and ends up with a 60-year-old German lady.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE" is the best way to encapsulate my emotions over the last week and a half.

The whole process is soul-crushing. I just feel so inadequate and poor. Did you know that kitchens are a thing of the past? I mean, the appliances are still required, but one can longer expect to have any sort of surface for placing items, mincing meats, or juilenn-ing carrots. As I prepare to leave the finest accommodations I will ever know, I'm kinda depressed by the options available to me. I mean, why did I bother getting degrees expensive schools if I'd only be able to afford to live in a cardboard box?

Of course, there are options, but being in a realationship and all, we've got to do this thing called "compromise." As I understand it, it basically means we'll have to settle in favor of having each other and only hope that the resentment doesn't break us.

That's how love works, right?

I know I'm a brat, but because this blog is my safe space (where I am vulnerable to the comments and criticisms of others), I will tell my TRUTH: I have grown accustomed to a lifestyle in which I can do laundry at my leisure and only walk 2 minutes to the subway. And yes, my desire to live in Manhattan is a bit bourgie--but I swear, it's not my fault, it's genetic. I already told you guys how, when my mom was pregnant with me and living in Brooklyn she chose a doctor who worked in Harlem Hospital? Why did she do that? Because the hospital was top-notch. I was supposed to be born on December 24, but when my mom went in for a final check-up on December 7, she hopped off the examining table and her water broke--I was ready to break free.

Guys, even as a fetus I could sense that we were in Manhattan and I wanted to make it convenient for us. My connection with this convenient, narrow, subway-filled borough runs deep. (Plus, Lord knows it would have been a shit show trying to get a cab from BK to Harlem when your black and trying to do lamaze breathing!)

But I can't give up--if I let the negative thinking ruin me, I wouldn't have ever made it to freedom, you know?

As we struggle to find a place that works within our tiny budget, we also have to battle brokers, which are like evil gnomes who want nothing more than a pound of your flesh and 15% commission. I think our mutual hatred for them is what's keeping our love so strong as we attempt to traverse this heartless city. Honestly, the process is really bringing out the addict in me. Think about it:

Finding an apartment is basically a legal, drug-free way to get a high and then come crashing down with a hangover that can only come from absinthe and cocaine. Not that I've done that, mind you, but I've been around enough unsavory characters/rich private school kids to know how the process works. Basically, you spend all day trying to track down "the stuff" (going from listing to listing, making call after call). Most of the time, the weed you wanted turned out to be oregano and the cheap whiskey is watered down, so to speak. When you finally find "the goods," you've got the dealer breathing down your neck, repeatedly assuring you that "this is legit"--which you've learned means it's probably not (it's about attraction, not promotion in this drug game). You want to play it cool, but you've got a checkbook in your pocket and want to feel like you've accomplished something, so you get ready to hand over all your savings for a chance at a great high.

Just then, another dude comes up in need of a fix. Before you can even find your pen, he hands over all of his cash and the keys to his Bentley. You officially don't exist.

Cut to you squatting in a crack den, telling yourself this is just a one-time thing.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Am I really incapable of finding a clean, safe, centrally located place to live after nearly 30 years on earth and a full-time job at a place that's not McDonald's?

I mean, the answer is yes--at least on one of those counts. But to give up on dreams hurts, especially when I feel as though so many of my dreams are being deferred (the blackting, the voiceover, the day job).

I know this is a process and millions have gone through it and lived to tell the tale; I just didn't expect this kind of failure.

(See how I tied that back in there? NAILED IT!)

I may have frostbite--it was just THAT cold

Hey gang,

You have no idea how good it feels to be blogging again. I just got back from the D, which I haven't been to in over a year. As you know, when my mom and I go visit G-Unit, we must grapple with three generations of crazy, all with our own truths. This weekend was no exception and the only silver lining is that it was a mere 56 hours long. But it's amazing how, despite global warming, it's still so, so cold in the D. For those of you who still can't quite wrap your brain around what it is to be in the city that god forgot, let me share this internet vid. Not since T-Baby's magnum opus has the essence of the D been so eloquently captured.

I'm just glad that I don't have this guy's grandma!

The repeated requests for chili cheese, the support for Kwame Kilpatrick, the recollections of shooting various people--it's as spot-on as Stuff White Girls Say to Black Girls.

Some translations:

- "Run on Rose" means rose champagne--Moet. Apparently it's the balls.
- "snatch some carties" = steal some Cartier sunglasses
- Kwame Kilpatrick was the mayor of the D who was having an affair with his chief of staff--this was put out after he'd already been accused of corruption. That's why "he can't be textin bitches."

Clockin' 10,000 Hours, 5 Minutes at a Time (A WOMANifesto?)

I've done four mics in the last three days, which might be laughable to Louis CK, but has me really proud of myself. Even though I love sleep like a fat kid loves not being made fun of, I know that I won't get off the plantation if I don't start squirreling away food and necessities to prepare for my escape--metaphorically speaking.

But man, open mics and networking sucks. At the end of a boring day writing about pictures of fruit in bowls, the last thing I want to do is to spend up to 2 hours in a lame bar surrounded by poorly dressed, mildly autistic, self-loathing men who are all friends with each other just so I can spend 5 minutes holding a microphone in front of the aforementioned boys club. They're not exactly my target audience.

Any comic who's made it--and developed a sustainable career--has put in the time and continues to do so. But I find it so hard to "replenish the creative well," so to speak, when I'm just running from one thing to the next, grocery bags under the eyes like I'm shoppin' at Whole Foods, and not really engaging in the world. I'm half tempted to start drinking and hooking up with randos just for the material!

I jest. I think.

Gladwell says it's all about clockin' the hours. But if I've gotta wait to hit 10,000 one set at a time, I may not be an outlier until I'm 84 years old. And by then, we'll all be hairless pod people providing the life force for Apple's cyborgs, so no one will really care. (Do you think they'll have comedy clubs in the dystopian future? I feel like they'd all be 20-person bringers with a 12-drink minimum.)

I'm finding myself most fueled by collaboration with strong black women of every color. I'm not above open mics and all, but nowadays I think of my best stuff when sitting and talking one-on-one with a quick-witted gal pal. Since that's the opposite of soul-crushing, I think I'll continue to go that route and not judge myself if I don't hit an open mic.

Why am I discussing this? Well, I just got a link to an article from--you guessed it!--a Caucasian strong black woman that really reinforced some of these thoughts. In it, the author cites Molly Lambert's article "Can't Be Tamed: A Manifesto," where she says:

“Befriend The Other Woman… She is not the enemy. She is never your enemy. The enemy is always any guys who are creating situations that limit the number of females allowed. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down.”

I did a show at 11pm last night because the woman hosting it had a last-minute cancellation and thought of me. She thought of me because, despite my insecurity, when she sent an email blast saying she was running this show, I told her to keep me in mind for future slots that might open up (it's booked really far in advance).

And she did. And so, even though I wanted to go home and write, I showed up because I don't believe in turning down a gig. And I know that none of this is owed to me. And this gal who I'm convinced thinks I'm pathetic will never get a chance to prove me wrong if I don't let it go. She is not my enemy. Most of the time, I'm my own damn enemy and I've decided I'm done hatin' on me!

Hunger Pains Over The Hunger Games

Guys, it’s begun. Midnight last night, The Hunger Games premiered and my world was officially made whole. I am soooooo psyched, I don’t even know where to begin. I haven’t been this excited for a movie since Harry Potter IV! Jennifer Lawrence was the right choice for the lead. I mean, after Winter’s Bone— which was basically The Hunger Games set in meth country—we know that she can traverse a treacherous landscape for the good of her family.

And I only just found out that Stanley Tucci is in it!!!! Have I never mentioned my mild obsession with him? The man is perfect wherever he appears. I am so drawn to the Tucci, I want to touch his tushy!
Yes, I'm so excited that all these puns are swirling in my head:

Katniss is my catnip!

Shot through the heart / And you're to blame / You messed with Katniss / during The Hunger Games!!!!

This might be Lenny Kravitz' best move since making daughter Zoe.

My only hope is that the movie is 10 hours long and re-creates every single page of the book.

The Chosen People Have Chosen Me!!!

So, I don’t know how many of you received my March newsletter (email madblacktress[at]gmail.com if you wanna opt in!), but I mentioned a gig that was unlike any I’ve ever had. Of course, being nervous and stressed about it, I was trying to block it out and not speak of it—you know, like how I handle sweating in public. Saturday, March 17, I was scheduled to perform at a Jewish Community Center in York, Pennsylvania, just an hour away from where Jewboo’s parents live!

One of these things is not like the other.....

Clearly, someone had dropped out at the last minute—but I’m not quite sure why I was the natural sub. Never one to turn down a gig, I said yes and figured I’d work it out later. It was kinda exciting—although I was getting paid to do “20 minutes, clean material, but can be edgy,” and my lover’s parents would be in attendance!!! As you can imagine, I was freaking out. I mean, what does ‘edgy’ even mean? Can I just get a list of forbidden words? You know, like:

YOU CANNOT SAY

• F word
• S word
• C word
• Vagina / Vajay-jay
• P in V without a C
• “I can’t passover those matzohballs.”
• Niggerbollen
• Honky Lumps

YOU CAN SAY

• The other C word (cancer)
• The other C word (Caucasia)
• "Save the drama for Obama"
• Bitch, when used as a pronoun
• Wintercourse, when used as a biological term

I was equally stressed out being in a JCC. We all know that I’m down with the chosen but I’m learning that non-New York Jews are a different crowd. And, like the New Hampshire country club I attempted to entertain back in October, these folks were going to be out of my target demographic in terms of age and lifestyle choices. Would they know what Roots or a Tyler Perry production was? Would they be offended by the use of the term ‘Jewboo? I just wasn’t sure how I’d play it.

After consulting some of the top comedic Jewish minds I know, I reached the Zen place of not actually dealing with it. As Jewboo and I headed to PA, I started to get stressed. This was quickly eclipsed by a near-death experience.

So, turns out that I have allergy-induced asthma...which I discovered on Saturday, the morning before my JCC debut. #fml

Remember the magical impression I made on my first visit to Jewboo's family/a suburban PA emergency room?

Well, turns out it wasn't the lady meds--it's cat dander plus wall-to-wall carpeting.

After a night spent wheezing, we finally decided to suck it up and go to the urgent care center. Of course, being Pennsylvania and not NYC, I was in and out in just over an hour, complete with prescriptions to pick up!
Of course, fear of death trumps fear of death by stage, but once I passed that hurdle, I was back to freaking out, and waiting around the venue for over 90 minutes didn't help--until I went to the bathroom, that is.
After closing the stall door, my own face looked back at me!!!

Seeing one's own face in the most unexpected places (i.e. not a mirror) was mind-blowing!

I felt like Rihanna.

Clearly, they were ready for me, as they'd had to see my face numerous times over the last two weeks. I went up second, which gave me time to read the temperature of the room. They were quite fun, actually, and opener Gilad Foss killed them with his Israeli sense of Jewmor. I followed, and just sorta went in with my same old stuff. And turns out, they liked me--they really, really liked me!

After my set, everyone wanted to meet Jewboo (who had to repeatedly say his real name in an attempt to assert his identity), and the head of the JCC even cornered me in a wine-induced stupor and asked if I planned to convert to Judaism.
"Um, let's go over to the cake," I replied.
BYOB at a JCC = TMI!

The night was fun and it felt good to share that side of myself with the boo's parents. I was, however, wrecked from the previous night and ready to get to bed when we got home at 2am. (Keeping the parents out til all hours!) Unfortunately, steroids and the inhaler kept me hyped up like Jessie Spano before the big dance contest. I spent much of Sunday lying on the couch and returned to NYC with a mountain of laundry and much to do--you know, like prepare for an audition for 30 Rock on Monday.

Yep, that happened! I got an email Friday afternoon while en route to the PA JCC (perhaps I was already creating Chosen People karma before the gig began???). After the insanity of "Schmobbie Jones" (remember her?) I had to do a bunch of sleuthing to make sure I wasn't being lured into a dark alley. After all, how did they even know me? Where'd they get my contact info? How did they know I'd be right for the part?

Well, turns out those casting folks are good! Based on a set they saw me do at a club back in September, they called me in for a strong black woman whose one line is, "I handle conflict appropriately and I'm up-to-date on my mortgage payments!" YES!!! THAT IS SO ME!!!!

I was pretty psyched and was totally hepped up Sunday night--and still trying to get that whole "breathing" thing under control. A trip to the bathroom at 3:30am turned nearly deadly as I walked directly into the doorframe, clocking myself in the head. Any attempt at sleeping was abandoned, as I worked to ensure that I wouldn't end up with a giant lump on my head for 30 Rock.

I went into the audition in my Banana Republic dress and was about 10 years younger than the other women, which was a bit awk. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from Waiting to Exhale, especially because they all seemed to know each other. For reals, they were showing pictures of their babies, talking about their New Jersey homes that were minutes from one another, and generally being BFF. Clearly, there's an elite group of upwardly mobile blacktresses that function similarly to the Freemasons that I need to be a part of.

I must find my way in.

How are you?

We've Come a Long Way, Baby!

Hi Friends,

How are things going? I actually have energy today, which is surprising because I headlined a show at 11pm last night, got to work an hour late, and am about to get my period! TMI? Since when has that stopped me.

I headlined at Therapy, a gay bar that's served as a port in a storm for a blacktress for many months. I actually have fans who know when I'm gonna be there and show up to see me. And you have no idea how gratifying it is to be called "a funny bitch. I fuckin' love you." over and over. It never gets old.

Speaking of fuckin' loving people: Yesterday marked two years since Jewboo and I first made out and a love was born. Can you believe it, guys?

You've been there from the beginning, readers, and I had to mark this milestone with you. Honestly, you know more than my mother. It was to you that I first broke the news of my love affair 3 weeks in, coining the term 'Jewboo' in an attempt to protect his anonymity. It was you who found out about the first cry, 6 weeks into the relationship, and shared my elation when love was declared. And here we are, preparing to move in together, just two interracial lovers and two mildly obese cats. Who woulda thunk?

I'm going to keep this post brief, since I'm also trying this new thing where I actually focus on work between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Wish me luck!

xoxo,
blacktress

HOLLER IF YOU HEAR ME!!!

Guys, I just got the following casting notice and I have to share:

OPEN CALL

For the Tupac Shakur musical:

HOLLER IF YA HEAR ME

An American Musical Inspired by and featuring the music of Tupac Amaru Shakur

*Actors must be available for workshop dates: 4/23 - 5/11

SEEKING: African American Male and Female rappers ages 18 – 35. Additionally seeking one Caucasian actor ages 20 – 25 with a strong facility for rap and terrific guitar skills. Strong legit singing voices a plus for all, but not required.

WHAT TO PREPARE: A rap of choice under 2 minutes. We will supply a boom box if needed. Singers should prepare 16 - 32 bars of an uptempo song to sing accapella. You may bring your own accompaniment if you want.

My dear readers, please feel free to forward to all of your actor-friends who have a dream of being AMAZING.

If there's one way for a thug to be immortal, it's to be the basis of a musical.

If the children are our future, we should really try to make sure they don't grow up racist.

Someone on the Disney product-design team is a real dummy, if not a racist mastermind. Check out this new candy:

These new "Dig N Dips" are both portable and hateful! With the black princess endorsing the watermelon flavor and the white princess endorsing vanilla, your tiny tot can rot their teeth and their brain at the same time! You know, cause white people are vanilla colored and one of the oldest racial stereotypes in history states that black people love watermelon.

You already know I take issue with Disney's first black princess being turned into a frog about 5 minutes into her movie. The fact that they would do Tiana dirty like this is just beyond me. I have no idea how this kind of ridiculousness still happens. Do you know how many people have to sign off on a product and its packaging before it actually gets made? Seeing as I need to go through 4 people just to get a cover line on one of my magazines, I would imagine Disney is even more strict. So, let's just say that at least 4 people had to have looked at this package mock-up and said, "Yup, that's good! Aurora, Vanilla; Tiana, Watermelon. Put it in major grocery and candy stores across the country. [release to Manila and Taiwan in 6 months.]"

The End of Black Mystery Month

Guys, I've never been so excited for March in my life. This BHM was a real rollercoaster: We lost Don Cornelius and Whitney Houston; Viola lost, Octavia won; birth-control pills were recalled; and I'm finally getting the hang of Twitter.

To top it off, it seems that everyone's favorite Hot Mess Oompa Loompa, Snooki, is pregnant.

WHAT. THE. HELL IS HAPPENING TO THE WORLD?????

Shouldn't her ovaries be withered and her eggs pickled? Shouldn't her boyfriend's semen be 80 proof and unable to survive outside of his body? At the very least, shouldn't someone with her drinking history at the very least be getting Depo shots so as not to tax her memory? Of course, as I say this, I hear Jeff Goldblum's voice in my head, saying "Life finds a way."

Let's just hope that baby doesn't have fins. Or, better yet, that it doesn't get its own tv show--although it would probably make for a great season of Toddler & Tiaras.

This is one of those times I kinda wish The Hunger Games was real. If we had televised fights to the death, we'd be able to really separate the wheat from the discredits to the species, am I right guys????

Speaking of separating the wheat from the discredits, I must share this INSANE--albeit 5 years old and NSFWUYHH (Unless You Have Headphones)--youtube clip of local Atlanta public-access figure Alexyss K. Tylor--I kid you not, that is how her name is spelled.



I have no words.

Inglorious Roommates (not sure what to call this one)

Man, living with this German is a real test of endurance. Note to self: never rent out a room to a foreign PhD student--they're always in the house because they're too busy and too broke to do things.

I've been late to work every day this week because this gal's bogarting the bathroom like she has somewhere to be (which she doesn't, cause she just works in the house all day). The week before, I couldn't eat my breakfast in peace because she decided to make the kitchen her new workspace.

Look, y'all, I'm not a total curmudgeon (all the time), but first thing in the morning, I need my oats, my orange juice, and 30 minutes to steel myself for the day ahead. Before I head out to spend 8 hours doing something I don't enjoy, surrounded by people from the moment I step on the train until I get to sleep, I want half a damn hour sitting upright, catching local news, and not make upbeat small talk with someone I'm not close to. After all, I gotta save that for my coworkers.

I feel like Anne Frank in my own damn house! Every time I thought I heard the bathroom door open, I'd get up to head to the shower, only to find that she was inside the bathroom. Yesterday I had to straight-up knock--and passive-aggressively say, "I have to get ready for work" instead of, you know, "I have to take a shower"--because I couldn't wait any longer. Before knocking, I heard what sounded like some very heavy-duty exfoliating and labored breathing. I hated to interrupt, but if you're doing some sort of Ethan-Hawke-in-Gattaca* type of thing, I'm gonna need you to put the kibosh on that until after I leave the house.

In summation, I don't like living with her, I got to work 2 hours late, and I really like the movie Gattaca.

As you may have noticed, my posting is getting few and far between. It's not that I don't appreciate our relationship or love internet attention, but I'm working on writing a show and I find that I must redirect my humor-writing focus in order to make sure I actually generate material. Trying to create interesting and, hopefully, funny content for the diary, stand-up audiences, and a stage production is a lot to do at once, and I've figured out that the stage-show dreams always fall by the wayside because it's easier to write--and get instant gratification from--stuff for the blog and live audiences. So, in an attempt to get something more substantial going, you may see less of me--you know, like when a friend gets in a new relationship. (It's me and The Artist's Way, and we're head over heels for each other.) But I'll still be telling my truths, so don't give up! As I like to say, I'm goin' on hiatus but don't hate us!


*For those of you unfamiliar with the film with which I was obsessed for much of 1998, here's the clip I'm referring to (I even edited it myself!):

A De-gene-erate
Gattaca at MOVIECLIPS.com

Friday Fun! (Post 1 of 2....or 3?)

My apologies for the radio silence (or computer silence, or whatever—you know what I mean). Of course, I’m probably the first website you checked upon hearing the news of Whitney’s death. I’m sorry I failed you. I found out just minutes before going on stage and had to struggle to bring my A game. I actually have a visceral reaction to her death and am trying not to think about it. Whitney Houston was a crucial part of my upbringing and my desire to be a blacktress. I honed my singing chops by singing along to every one of her tapes—yes, I said tapes—from the age of 9 on. I think The Bodyguard was my first exposure to interracial love.

Whitney changed me.

I've been coping with the loss by watching YouTubes of THE VOICE, like this amazing medley she did at the Grammy Awards back in 1994. She is amazing.

I'm also learning to Distract, Relax, and Cope, as my therapist recommends, with the help of Toddlers & Tiaras--or, as I like to call it, 16 & Pregnant: The Later Years.
Look at this photo of coked-out Honey Boo Boo Chile Alana and her mom on Anderson Cooper.

THEY ARE BOTH TERRIFYING!!!!

ALANA LOOKS LIKE A CHUCKY DOLL. For those of you who can't see the full effect, I am offering a close-up.

There but for the grace of god go I.

In other news: It's funny how you can not sleep at all, finally get out of bed at 7:23am, and still get to work an hour late. It just keeps happening! I probably couldn't sleep because I was anxious for a set I'm doing at THE UNITED NATIONS tonight.

Yes, the real United Nations.

I’m doing a set at a charity gala organized by the UN and GLAAD to support the human rights of the global LGBTQ community!

I’m so nervous. I’ve been told that I have to do a 10-minute set and to “Please keep it clean and just letting you know that the crowd is very politically correct and very international. So please try not to have any offensive material.”

Of course, I needed clarification. I mean, there are going to be people from all over the world and all across the gender spectrum—there’s no way I’m going to talk for 10 minutes without making someone want to throw their crudite. The PR woman explained:

I would just ask that you don't use the word bitch because people in my office are very sensitive to that word. Also, if you could limit the cursing, and don't use material that is overly sexual or racial (For example: No wintercourse bit)

Overly sexual and overly racial is my middle name!

Well, we'll see. Maybe I can do a tight-10 on The Channel Islands or Burma or something.

I'm composing another post right now! #whenitrainsitpours

Morning Posts

Ugh, I have no idea what to blog about. But I've started reading The Artist's Way which suggests writing "morning pages" every day. These are three handwritten pages of whatever comes to your mind right after waking up. The goal is to just write, with no judgments or agenda, and just clear out all the crap. So, with that in mind, I'm going to just write about where I'm at, and just see what happens. (without being overly self-indulgent, I swear!)

Not that my life's totally boring (just mildly), but I don't know how to be succinct and witty anymore. Between writing about paintings non-stop and the calls from [insert network here]'s Legal Department, the will to go on has been sucked out of me.

Yes, calls from the legal team. Remember my cuckoo bananas run-in with a mentally ill woman who offered to make me a star? Well, since then I've gotten several more emails, and at 12:06am last night I received a THREE-MINUTE VOICEMAIL MESSAGE from the woman, talking about how NBC writers are just mad at her because "my sketches are perfectly written and LOL."
Yes, she said LOL.

Of course, this is all fodder for something, but I've been suffering from creative blocks and I feel like I just need an emotional laxative. (A relaxative? A frien-ema? I feel like there's a good portmanteau out there just waiting to be found!) In summation, here's where I'm at right now:

Sojourner's Current Truths

• I cringe every time my coworker opens the blinds to the window that stretches across both of our cubicles. I realize it's because the feeling of the sunlight on my skin reminds me that this is reality. (Sometimes when I'm in the office alone, I don't open any blinds at all.)
• Is it wrong for me to ask the German roommate not to use the kitchen as a study space so that I can get up and have my morning oatmeal (and general pre-day prep) in peace and quiet?
• What about if I ask her to stop making her gross-smelling coffee that makes the house smell like wet garbage?
• Whenever I'm crossing the street, I'm afraid that turning cars are going to hit me. A couple weeks ago, a guy stopped his car after I ran across (I had the light), he opened his door, and yelled after me, "WHY YOU RUNNING??? WHY YOU RUNNING? YOU FUCKING IDIOT." It was awkward.
• Jewboo and I are starting to look for an apartment and the place we were interested in just fell through. We had a sure-fire in, there was a washer/dryer IN THE BUILDING, and the apt has a special spot in my heart because it's where I saw my very first episode of 16 & Pregnant. Then the landlords decided we had to go through a broker (after speaking with us directly and giving us apps to fill out), who would charges a $1700 fee! Um, no thanks.

Ugh, I just got another email from the crazy lady, telling me to "be nicer to the writer, N" after I wrote her an email asking her to cease communication.

Is that a threat? Y'all, she's going to skin me and wear me as a pelt!

It's Too Cold in the D

Apparently, residents of the D are taking justice into their own hands.

Jewboo alerted me to this news item with just the words "Jesus Christ" before the link. Unfortunately, I wasn't all that surprised--not even after reading about Detroit resident Julia Brown.

The last time Brown, 73, called the Detroit police, they didn’t show up until the next day. So she applied for a permit to carry a handgun and says she’s prepared to use it against the young thugs who have taken over her neighborhood, burglarizing entire blocks, opening fire at will and terrorizing the elderly with impunity.

“I don’t intend to be one of their victims,” said Brown, who has lived in Detroit since the late 1950s. “I’m planning on taking one out.”

Although Julia "Throw Down" Brown is obviously related to T-Baby in some way, she is no match for my G-Unit. At 95 years old, G-Unit has been keeping a gun in her house since the Regan administration (hence her lovable nickname). When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she always warned us to "go anywhere but in the front room. That's where I keep my gun."

Having seen Boyz N the Hood and knowing we were already living on borrowed time as black youth in Detroit, none of us were stupid enough to actually look for the firearm, but we were obsessed with the idea of my grandmother having it.

"What are you gonna do with a gun, grandma?" My cousin asked.

"I'll shoot an intruder," she said, with her voice starting to rise. "Some fool tryna come up in here and rob me. I may be old, but I ain't no weak person! I made it this far and I ain't letting some dumb son of a bitch take me."

Ever the logical one, I had only one follow-up "If you shot him, what would you do with the body?"

What my grandmother said next is still emblazoned on my brain 20 years later. So matter-of-fact that she was almost dismissive, she replied, "I'd let the dog eat it."

Y'all! Ethel will leave your body as puppy chow if you try to start some ish! She's gonna make sure black folks can have nice things!

(I think this level of hardness is what makes me such a difficult woman to love. I come from take-no-prisoners Southern sharecropping stock.)

At the time, I imagined a body on the hallway floor with Toby (her dog) biting off bits of it. Even at 7 years old, I assumed there'd be a stench and wondered how Grandma would get pass the corpse to get to the bathroom every two hours, as she was wont to do. I was able to have such a detailed vision because I had no doubt in my mind that G-Unit would do it!

I blame Clint Eastwood. Gran Torino was practically a documentary and then there was that Super Bowl commercial (see below). I guess this is what he meant by "Motor City fighting again."

By "the roar of our engines," did you mean the sounds of caps busting in asses?

He Is My Patronus

Just wanted to share a great clip from one of my favorite comics, Hari Kondabolu. No better way to celebrate BHM with a man who always speaks truth to power.

A Portent?

Y'all, this BHM is starting off WRONG.

I have been on the plantation less than hour and have already received two pieces of news that have shaken my young, gifted, and BLACK world. I can't be alone in this.

1. Don Cornelius, creator of Soul Train, was found dead in his home this morning, of an apparent suicide.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! Don, you created the longest-running show in the history of television! You showed white people how to dance! You provided the basis for countless episodes of sitcoms!

He is, in short, an AfAm Icon. Today of all days, this hurts. And what hurts even more is that it's been buried at the bottom of news and pop-culture websites.

2. While sitting at my desk, my coworker two cubes behind me exclaims. "Holy shit." I need to know the cause, natch. Apparently, "Pfizer just recalled 1 million packets of birth control pills in the US because they may not actually prevent pregnancy." Of the three generic brands, one of them is used by the blacktress!

Y'ALL! THIS IS NOT OKAY. I can't be ringing in BHM Juno style!

Can you imagine a bunch of mini blacktresses and Jewboos running around?! They'd be all kinds of neurotic (cause they're the Jewish spawn of two aspiring comics) and neglected (cause they were accidents). I don't have enough money for dreams, let alone prenatal vitamins! Not to mention the fact that I get weary just watching a Law & Order marathon, so you know late-night feedings would be out. AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I have no one to share this with, as my coworkers find it a bit "inappropriate" that I told them I used one of the brands that have been recalled. Of course, I turn to you, gentle readers. We need each other now more than ever.

In hopes of turning this day--nay, this month--around, I'm going to share what I planned to write about this morning, before all of this earth-shattering news hit my brainhole.

Thank god for JJSiii. Whenever a blacktress is down, he knows exactly what to send from the interwebs to remind me that life's worth living. On Monday, it was an invitation to join his RuPaul Fantasy Drag Race team.

Today, he sent along a music video so amazing, I don't even think I have the words for it. I will let it speak for itself. Please, enjoy. You're welcome.



After writing what I thought were the lyrics, I ran them against JJSiii and found we were on the same page. Clearly, English isn't Andrew Doriane's first language, but bless him for putting his feelings out there. For those who may be having trouble deciphering, here's the breakdown:

“Breath of the ocean / Tranquil emotions / I’m feeling so safe in her arms / One thing is clear / Heaven is here / With her, I can reach for the stars / Looking at us...

CHORUS: Somehow she’s like gay / I’ve always had this feeling / even deep inside / She has been playing gay so real that I believe it / Am I losing my mind?

“No one except her / Keeps me protected / From different storms on my way / Her guessing my wishes / Makes me suspicious / She knows me for (??) what I think / God, she’s like gay

(repeat chorus)

Somehow she’s like gay, because she seems to know men as well as gays do / She must be playing gay with me so I can only be like lesbian too

(repeat chorus)

Gay (echo, echo, echo)”

Give Me a CRAY to Build a Dream On…

...And my imagination will drive upon that cray!

NB: {RF} denotes a Red Flag.

Happy Monday, gang—Sojourner here, writing to you live from my veal pen. I apologize for the delayed post. There was much going on but I wasn’t sure if it was share-worthy until now. I’ll start with the most CRAY:

Last Sunday (1/22) I did a set at a gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen that I thought changed my life. I mean, I wasn’t so amazing, but I did well and discovered I have a growing fan base among the 20-something unemployed-gay-male set. After the show, a woman approached me, congratulating me on my set and asking if I “had done any television.” She was very small and dressed like a tourist, with an oversized hunter-green fleece and a fanny pack. {RF} She asked for my card and introduced herself as a writer for SNL and script supervisor on 30 Rock. "I work closely with Marci Klein and have script supervised for Tina Fey," she said. "And I always like to keep an eye out for new faces for casting. Can I have your card?"

OH EM GEE!!! Dreams DO come true! Perhaps I can still be noticed doing my stand-up thang even though I’m not in the cult of UCB. Perhaps I am above average. Perhaps—

Now, y’all know mama didn’t raise no fool. Before the show ended I approached the host and asked if this woman was legit. “No, she is,” he assured me. “She’ll email you tomorrow, pass your info on, it’s all good.” Because I want this man to be my best friend, and because he's a working actor and comic who's been in the business many years, I trust his judgment.

That night, giddy with excitement but not one to count my chickens, I search for the woman online. After all, a writer for two of the most famous and popular shows on television must have an IMDB or a Wiki, right?

Well, not a damn thing came up. {RF} Um, this is 2012--if you are not on the internet, you do not exist. Even as a freelancer--especially as a freelancer--one should have a website so that people can know you're legit.

The next day, she did email, asking for a high-res picture she could send to NBC casting--perhaps I was just being negative. As I scrambled to find a good shot on my work comp, I noticed that the email came from a--let’s say schmachel.schmuben@aol.com. {RF} The woman I met introduced herself as let’s say Schmobbie Jones. Ok, maybe it’s an assistant, I thought to myself. So I decided to google the name in the email address, adding “NBC” “SNL,” “writer staff”—no dice. {RF}

As I'm pretending to be Garcia from "Criminal Minds," Schmobbie was sending emails like this:
Subject: 3 scripts printed I can mail
or do you want to meet briefly - it's rainy & i am writing /sent pitch to NBC west they like
your casting & brad gave you a rave as actress/ comedian - I am into the series it's
really got a got shot it's in the semi finals on west coast development/ anyway totally!
[insert rando alias] nbc 30 r

{RF} WHAT THE FUCK? The "semi finals"? Of what--America's Next Top CauCRAYsian?

At this point, I was glad I hadn't told anyone besides Jewboo and my mom.

I like to think of myself as Nancy Drew Must Not Know Bout Me, which means I'm never done sleuthing (imagine if this was an internet date!). I decided to contact a friend—ok, let’s be real, a Facebook friend—who writes for SNL and tell her about this person. She’s never heard of the woman! I email the comedian through whom I met this woman to let him know the status:

Hey B - Have you actually been called in for anything through [insert rando alias]? I can't find hide nor hair of her on the interwebs, and she said she wrote at SNL and my friend who's a writer there has never heard of her. Also got an email from her under the address [another random alias]@yahoo.com (sent to my youtube account) and schmachel.schmuben@aol.....Is she going to have us all gathered together for a sex party?
-N

He replies with:
Lol. No, she's legit. She writes freelance for snl.. So not a staff writer. And is one of the script supervisor's for 30Rock. She ain't Tina Fey or Lorne Michaels... But she's also not Kathy Bates in Misery...

Mmmmkay…..But I can't ignore the feeling in my gut. Much like young Christina Aguilera when she was a genie in a bottle, my body was sayin' let’s go (ahead and think you may be getting a great opportunity) but my heart was saying NO (this bitch is cray)!

The emails keep coming all week, with requests to meet for a read-through, phone calls telling me where the scripts have been dropped off for me to pick up, and emails cc’d to me and NBC exec producer Marci Klein, Bob Greenwalt, and others. If she was a fraud, wouldn't any of the NBC people on the emails--or one of their assistants or an intern--send a standard reply to those included on the chain so that they can head this off at the pass? And this "Schmobbie" woman hasn’t tried to extort money from me or put me in an ice bath so she can jack a kidney, so what exactly is her end-game?

Last night—exactly seven days after our initial meeting—my theories were confirmed. I went to the same bar from last week to pick up the scripts that this woman left for me, and the comic pulls me into the coat-check room as soon as he sees me. He's sighing and clutching his temples, and won't say anything until he's closed the barricade and tightly sequestered us in the corner of the dimly lit coatroom. (love my dramatic gays) “Did you get my email?” he asks tensely. Alas, no. I was out all day, and had just come from doing a shitty set at a comedy show in Harlem. He fills me in on his email, which was:

[One of the other comics embroiled in this mess] just texted me to say she was contacted by NBC legal regarding [this sketchy woman] and supposedly she is NOT affiliated with NBC and they're basically reaching out to people to make sure we steer clear of her. I'm waiting for [comic] to call me and give me more details and I'll let you know all I know... So stay tuned
Ps. I hate this business...


Y’all, I just don’t know what to say. I’m annoyed, depressed, and frustrated. People always tell me I’m being pessimistic, but then shit like this goes down, and I’m like, “I TOLD YOU IT WASN’T HAPPENIN’ FOR ME!” These out-of-control incidences are the kinds of unforgettable things that influence your outlook! Although I saw it comin’ a mile away, and I know the woman is sick and suffering, I can’t help but feel the following:

• If NBC knows about this woman, why couldn’t I have gotten a form-email saying that she wasn’t who she claimed to be? (she’d cc’d real NBC executives on our emails) I'm not saying I Marci Klein should have scooped me up in her arms, rocked me gently, and told me I was talented, but I mean, it's fuckin' NBC—I know they got auto-reply and an IT staff that’s probably got 19 PhDs among them. This lady wears a laminated NBC badge—really, they aren’t gonna take any recourse or help others avoid falling prey to her fuckery?
• How can this delusional woman involve so many young, hopeful actors into her elaborate lies?? She’s heartbreakin’ and impersonatin’!
• I’m trying to “suit up and show up,” as they say—do what I can, be open and honest, and try not to let the successes of people 10 years young and 20 pounds thinner make me feel bad. And yet, when I put myself out there in spite of my negativity, I’m met with mentally unstable hobbit-like creatures who are still emailing me about a green-lit pilot in which I'd play a 40-something-year-old former model. Yes, y’all—allegedly, there’s a read-through tonight at 10pm.

#DreamsDeferred

On an Up-Note:

It seems that Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock might go on tour together.
Reason to live? – Present!
Of course, Dave’s the wild card in this scenario, but if anyone could persuade him, it’s Chris “Solid As A” Rock. Fingers crossed! I'd love to be their roadie.

Even I didn't see this coming!

God, I can't believe it's been 12 days since my last post. Apologies, friends!

I meant to put this post up yesterday and got all kinds of sidetracked. Apparently, when you purchase a “Mattress in a Box” from Overstock.com, the condition of the box cannot be trusted. It’s tough to roll something when the wheels are broken off. It's even tougher to carry it when it's nearly 80 pounds. Luckily, there were a few good men willing to play their gender and my back is already out, so it didn't hurt much. I digress...

Guys, I’m really excited about Melissa McCarthy being nominated for an Oscar. I didn’t think Bridesmaids was as great as everyone said, but she was certainly the best part of that film. Every word out of her mouth was gold and she embodied the values of a SBW (Strong Black Woman). She reminds me why doing comedy is important--and shows that true talent can't be denied. Comedies are rarely acknowledged by the Academy, let alone comedic actresses. This is fucking HUGE!

Plus, she’s bff with Octavia Spencer, which makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

And also makes me want to become Octavia Spencer...

Of course, you probably want me to say a little something about Viola, Octavia, and The Help buzz. To those inquiring minds, all I have is this: I have no love for a film that centers on a kindly Caucasian recognizing racism and inequality. Emma Stone, I don’t need your Help!

Viola Davis is the new Angela Bassett of my heart, only even more versatile.* I want to be her when I grow up. I love what she has to say in interviews and she’s definitely a blacktress paving the way. But Viola should have won the Oscar for Doubt and that’s all I have to say.

So anyway, back to MMc--Which one of Megan’s hilarious moments do you think AMPAS will use for the nominee clip? I hope it’s the airplane scene with the air marshal.

*I’ll forgive her one Tyler Perry Production indiscretion, as I assume it involved some bad management and/or outstanding grad-school debt.

I think we could all learn a little something from this girl.

She is a young, white, Southern version of me.

The video really started to resonate with me when she started smushing her belly. I enjoy doing that, especially when I'm trying to prove why I'll never be a star of stage or screen.

I mean, if I had a nickel for every time I called someone "honey boo-boo child," I'd be a trillionaire. Nay--a chamillionaire!

Sidebar: I know kids are energetic, but does it kinda seem like Alana might be on meth or some other sort of stimulant?

Guys, I have to tell you about this rando show I did last night.*

*[Balls--I wrote this yesterday (Thurs) and thought I'd hit send.]

I did a set at a cabaret-type club as part of an inaugural “musical comedy variety show.”

Friends, let me let you in on a little “industry secret”: Comedy and music don’t mix very well, and stand-ups hate doing ‘variety’ shows. No one who is interested in either—or both—wants to view them at the same time. They require two different modes of engaging, one of which is passive and the other is much more of a dialogue. Basically, my point is, I was ready for it to be very awkward and uncomfortable. Add to that my lack of sleep and the small crowd, and it was really anybody’s game.

[Sidebar: Ugh, my coworker is trying to get us to pitch in to buy wedding gifts for two of our coworkers who are getting married (not to each other). I’m still pissed off about the waste of money that was The Yankee Swap. These people don’t pay me enough to waste my money. Besides, you’re about to marry the person you love more than anything and take three weeks off of work—as far as I’m concerned, you need to be getting me a consolation prize!]

Anyway, back to the show:
The order was: music – stand-up (a young Caucasian) – music – special musical guest – music – Sojourner – music.

The music was amazing. Although the mastermind behind it all was a delicate Canadian, white as the freshly driven show, she had some serious soul. It was like she got a shaman to steal the voices of Sarah Vaughn and Etta James. I went up to her and her bass player afterward and asked them what was in the water in British Columbia that made the youth so soulful. (Bass player posited it was animal urine. Oh, Canucks!)

It was a great show, but by the time I got on stage—following a jazz rendition of The Cardigans hit “Lovefool” (which was AMAZING)—I was damn-near asleep and thought I’d be a hot mess. The band was onstage during the set, so I had to make inappropriate comments to them, of course. I also dropped a lot of TRUTH BOMBS that they’re weren’t ready for, like the popularity of the Swedish dessert niggerbollen. After about three minutes, I just looked at the audience and said, “THIS IS HOW I DO, Y’ALL. GET IN IT TO WIN IT OR CHOOSE TO LOSE.”

It actually wasn’t that bad of a set, considering the small, jazz-loving crowd. I was accosted by two audience members post-show, which is always a sign of success. One of them was a cute fashionista (seriously; she worked in fashion) and the other was an honest-to-goodness CauCRAYsian.

Guys, I don’t know how to describe him. He just sort of happened to me. He came to the show late—about a minute into my set—and even if it had been crowded, he would have been impossible to miss. With long, thin brown hair (parted down the middle), large Hollywood-royalty sunglasses (yes, he wore them indoors), a floor-length Neo-like coat, and an ascot, he was like Ozzie Osbourne’s whimsical younger brother. He cracked up during my set, and as I was making my way to the door, he stopped me in my tracks.

“YOU!” he said, grabbing my face. “Darling, Darling, Darling!!!” He really enjoying rolling his r’s. I laughed, but before I could say anything, he leans in with his pillowy lips to kiss me on the mouth.
WHAT. THE. FUCK?!

I manage to turn my head (his grip was strong), saying, “Didn’t you pay attention to the words that were coming out of my mouth?! I have a Jewboo now and I’m a classy lady!”
He then plays it off in top form, saying, “Oh, yes, that is good. That was a test and you passed. We can now be friends.”
He then tells me that he loved “Caucasia” because he is Georgian—as in, from Georgia, aka the Caucasus region of Europe/Asia. Guys, he is FROM THE CAUCUS MOUNTAINS. HE IS AN ORIGINAL CAUCASIAN!

He then goes on to tell me that, if you were to talk to a Russian, they’d refer to him as “the name of those Swedish balls.” Apparently, the Georgians are looked down upon. Between his minority status and Caucasian roots, he decided we were best friends. He refused to let go of me and demanded I accompany him to Marie’s Crisis, a basement piano bar where everyone’s a diva. I explained that I had to go. of course, there was a time not so long ago, when I would have hung out with this random pillowy-lipped, likely herpetic Georgia until 4am, just for the 10 minutes of material later on.

But I’m a new woman, with chronic fatigue, a tender lover, and a penchant for baked goods. Oh, and I’m now a blogger for a movie website! Check it out.

All the Randomness That's Fit to Print!

Can you believe it’s only Wednesday? I’ve been one day ahead all week and it’s just—to take a phrase from an 80s movie—bumming me out. I haven’t slept more than 4 hours a night in the last week, so I don’t really have a through-line. Here are some thangs I been thinkin’ ‘bout. Feel free to take what works and leave the rest:

• “What? I don’t know. I don’t…care. I’m doing something else right now.” ~ Me, to my coworker.

This happened before 12pm today, guys. I’m so worn down that I can’t even fake it til I make it (off the plantation)! He was showing me some event invitation that’s not going to take place until February 6—why would I be thinkin’ about a work function on February 6 when I can’t even figure out how I’m gonna do my 8-minute set tonight? Bitch, please!

• I read in a ¼-page “article” in US Weekly that Janet Hubert—aka Fresh Prince of Bel Air’s Aunt Viv verison 1.0—is angrier than Regina George when she found out those chocolate bars weren't for weight loss.

Janet recently told TMZ, “There will never be a reunion… as I will never do anything with an asshole like Will Smith. … He is still an egomaniac and has not grown up. This constant reunion thing with never ever happen in my lifetime unless there is an apology, which he doesn’t know the word.”

Y’all, I know where Aunt Viv is coming from. I mean, not personally—I’m sure Will Smith is a peach—but blacktress definitely knows how to hold on to some old ish. I mean, take for instance today’s random run-in at Cosi: I saw a high school classmate standing in line as I was paying. It was kinda cray because she was someone I haven't seen since 2001 and I had just been thinking about her two days ago. (You know, the whole “Why hasn’t Facebook suggested we be friends?” thing) I got excited and wanted to go say hello, but stopped myself. She looked exactly the same--except with diamond earrings, a long, grown-up-lady coat with a fur-lined collar, a pedicure and sensible slacks. I, on the other hand, had dried snot on my nose and had only stopped crying 10 minutes earlier. Although Lord knows it wouldn’t have been much of a difference from high school, I couldn't introduce myself like that. After all, I have to prove to these high school folks that I'm not a loser!

Like Janet Hubert, the resentment I feel from 15 years ago still influences me today. But unlike Janet Hubert, I will not spend my 40s and 50s living in anger. I mean, look what Janet could do when she put her mind to it:


Talk about young, gifted, and black!

• In other news: Move over, Vajazzling—Vattooing is coming for ya!

Yes, this is a real thing.

As you all know, Vajazzling is one of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s favorite things. Apparently, women with low self-esteem and disposable income have taken it a step further. One hard-hitting online journalist went inside the world of vag tats and shared her findings, which I will now share with you.

“After the entire mons pubis and labia have been stripped of any signs of womanhood, you can specify the design of your choice. Nicole, shown above, opted for a cutesy heart pattern. The technician carefully created a detailed pattern, and then instructed Nicole to pick the non-toxic colors of her choice. Her vatoo took about 10 minutes to apply with three colors: purple, coral, and teal. …

This isn’t some junky temporary tattoo that you can buy anywhere- it’s applied by hand, customizable, non-toxic, and doesn’t have any of that weird filmy stuff that you get from a cheap temporary tattoo. You won’t get that weird cracked look as time goes on, either. The paint will gradually fade away over the course of 7-10 days (even with showering), and if you decide you need it off sooner you can always swab the area with rubbing alcohol to remove it."

Thank god for rubbing alcohol. And real alcohol. Am I right, ladieeezzzzz?!!
(My only question: when can we start calling them twattoos?)

Mondays Aren't Fundays

”You look like you came in off the street in that big coat.” ~ my boss, to me.

I actually wasn’t offended. Of course, he has immunized me against inappropriate comments over the last 2 years (and started off the year with a strong dose of TMI when he discussed the sex party he and his pals “mistakenly” attended on New Year’s Eve). But it’s also because I’m definitely giving off a hobo vibe.

I’ve been wearing my coat all day, both because it’s freezing in the office and because I’d like to be able to make a quick getaway should the need arise.
Not that I’m on the lam or anything—I just like to be ready.

[Sidebar: I’ve been craving lasagna and didn’t want to wake up today. I feel like Garfield.]

So, a few changes in Blacktress World™: I’m becoming a landlady! In an effort to fund my dreams and avoid total bankruptcy, I’m getting a roommate for a few months. After very little effort, I found a German PhD student who seems perfect. She’s only here until the end of May, she’ll be spending most of her time writing her dissertation, and she gets my humor. (Sometimes I don’t go over so well with the ESL crowd)

Of course, I’m nervous about having to share space after months of solitude, but I’m also looking forward to it. Having a roommate means I won’t be able to spend hours crying in the bathroom and I’ll have to maintain a higher standard of kitchen cleanliness. Great way to start off 2012!*

I also learned that she’s writing her dissertation on African American Anticolonialism. Can you believe it? Sojourner renting her space with a German who’s down with the brown?! If Harriet “TUBZO” Tubman could see me now!

*As you can probably guess, my depression is rearing it's ugly head. So much so that my coworker invited me to come to a wedding-cake tasting after work today--and I seriously considered it. I then realized that pretending to be engaged to someone for free cake would only fuel my self-loathing.

Why Are People So Cray?

Granted, not my punny-est title, but it’s really all I’ve got to say.

I got to work and was greeted by Awkward Male Coworker, who has come back from holiday vacay with some new neuroses. He’s been eating Weight Watchers SmartOnes for lunch every day.

He is 31 years old. He is not obese. He is not overweight. He doesn’t even have a paunch.
I finally called him out yesterday in the office kitchen.

“What are you doing to yourself?! You need more than 250 calories for a meal!”
“I’m watching my weight,” he said in his trademark monotone. [His underbite leaves him little room for enunciating.]
“There’s nothing to watch!”
“I’ve gotta get back to 24-year-old Tom, heh.” [his laughter is so weird.]
“Um, wasn’t 24-year-old Tom getting a divorce?”
“But I looked good.”

I’m sorry to discriminate, but a man eating a SmartOnes as a meal disgusts me. I mean, when a woman eats it, I get sad, but a man….I don’t know, it just crosses the line.

He was heating up this--which, as you can imagine, looks 10x worse IRL.

When I got in, AMC was eating a breakfast salad—nothing particularly breakfast-y in it, but a salad at breakfast. Spinach, Tomatoes, Mushrooms, with no dressing.

I can’t even look at him.

I was particularly annoyed because, this morning I had the strangest encounter with a human before ever leaving my house—which is saying a lot, cause I live alone. I was eating my Banana Nut Crunch* when the buzzer rang. I answered and waited for the person to state his/her name and business through the intercom.

"Hi, I’m your neighbor at 309. I was walking my dog and I can’t find him and I wanted to see if he was in your backyard."

In the words of Marc Maron: WTF?!

Y’all, the levels of fuckery are almost as limitless as Bradley Cooper, but let me just share some of the first few:
My "neighbor at 309"? Um, I live at 56. What kind of geography are you using?! Plus, you didn’t even say what street you’re on. To be on 309 [Sojourner’s] Ave, you’d have to be about 17 blocks north. Not exactly my neighborhood.

You want to "see if your dog was in my backyard?" You mean he got through my 7-foot-tall reinforced fence and stood there quietly for the last 15 minutes? Bitch, please.

“I’ll go take a look,” I told him through the intercom. And I did—a real thorough one, too.
“Nope, he’s not here.”
“You looked?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, ok.” He sounded dejected. “Um, could--”
“Sorry. Good luck!”

I don’t know what this CRAY-bor (you know, crazy neighbor) was thinking. This is not a Lifetime Movie, this is my life. Mama didn’t raise no fool! Maybe it’s all the Criminal Minds I watch, but I know a potentially rape-y situation when I see one. Like I’m just going to let him carry out a home invasion cause he’s “looking for a dog.” I am not a gentrifier; you can’t warm my heart by talking about an animal and think I’ll forget where I am.
In the words of short-lived R&B trio 3LW: PLAYA, PLEASE!

When I left the house—10 minutes after he rang—the dude was still out there!!! Just as I suspected, he looked like he had nowhere to be during business hours and hadn’t been to a dentist since before 9/11. He gave me the same line, which just didn’t make sense because we’d been through this.

“I know, I looked. I didn’t see anything,” I said.
“Could I just—”
“NO.”
Y’all, I was about to break out a rape whistle on my own stoop!

I got on the train, looking back to make sure Doggie Day Care was walking in the opposite direction.

I mean, of course I’m excited that I avoided the clutches of a criminally insane person, but I'm still shaken. I’ve been taking solace in Twitter all morning, and it’s actually working. Just writing this post is a step on the road to recovery.


What are you up to this weekend, guys?



*Hey yo, Post Cereals, can I get some free boxes for advertising?

2012: Ghost Protocol

We did it, guys. We made it through another holiday season. No more cocktails with whole cranberries in them under the guise of “festive.” No more fancy dress parties that require I freeze my butt off. Of course, it always ends with the mother of all over-hyped parties: New Year’s Eve. I’m not tryin’ to front like I haven’t gone out and made a hot mess of myself in years past (see my 2009 mishap in Sydneytown). But my god, I am beyond over it. If we’re going to place great meaning on the end of the year, as we do with an NYE “bash” (the only time in which that word is used to described a gather), then equal meaning must be given to the start of a new one. With that thinking, why would I want to start my next year on earth with a hangover and shame? Nothin’ like being well-rested and eating a good brekkie to say, “Hello world! Blacktress is here!”

Not that I did that, mind you. Yesterday was the first workday of 2012 and I got to the office at 10:37am. Work starts at 9. (#depression:1,success:0) So far, I’ve been preoccupied with the Weight Watchers point values of foods and trying to figure out what side hustles I can take on to make a little extra dough.

It seems I’m right where we left off, friends. Then, I get a posting on my fb wall of this video with the line: "This is great, but I wish it was Sojourner." Yet again, there's another blacktress out there who's actually out there making things happen.

Add to that the “new looks” of Gmail and Facebook—which make everything far more confusing and create the same visual effect as a pile of vomit on my computer screen, and I’m already weary. Seriously, though: I am scared of Facebook "Timeline." I have a visceral reaction when I see a Timeline profile and fear mine may be next. I’m not even trying, y’all. I’m initiating Ghost Protocol on 2012. Disavowing the whole year, the country, all of it.

How’s TWENTYTWELVE starting for you? This could be our last year on earth, so let’s party like it’s 1999—you know, that other time it was gonna be our last year on earth.