A Conversation Among Heteros

Litsa: Where did he meet his boyfriend?

Me: At a bar.

Litsa: A bar? Wow. It's really so unfairly lucky to be a gay man.




Mind you, this conversation is taking place via g-chat as I read a catalog sent to me by accident by Godiva Chocolatier.

Black Aphrodite

Today, I’d like to talk about the foreign man.

I know I’ve mentioned him before, but things are really starting to get out of control. They just can’t get enough of the blacktress!

Saturday night (fully sober… ish), I was heading home on the train shortly after 2 am. This is something I never do at such an hour—especially when my meal tickets are on display and I’m looking grown and sexy. But I was feeling confident in the crowd waiting at the 2nd avenue station.

As I’m waiting, I notice an attractive glass of milk waiting for the train as well. I thought we looked at each other a couple of times, but by 2 am, my game was shot. I wasn’t even trying to smile then look away (that’s how I do, y’all!). In true crazy MTA fashion, an E train pulls into the F/V station. I get on it anyway, too tired to argue with the transit system’s madness. The attractive glass of milk enters and asks if the train is going to Queens. Between his accent and need to go to the outer boroughs in the wee hours of the morning, I knew he was foreign.

Oh, I should also mention that he was wearing a pinstriped fedora, much like this one:

I can often tell a foreign man by his accessories and/or number of buttons undone on his shirt. About a month ago, getting on the B train (hm… why do so many of my foreign encounters happen underground?…. The railroad to the freedom and free love!), I noticed a bald man making eyes at me. I then notice he’s wearing, like, 3 rings (none of them a wedding band—holla!), and I knew he had to be “the other.” On the train, we are forced together by rush hour crowding and I ask him where he’s from. He tells me he’s from Venice, Italy… before telling me I’m beautiful and should come visit him.

The rings don’t lie… much like hips.

Anyway, back to my current foreign correspondent: he tells me he’s from Greece and he’s an artist. I use my art magazine lingo and intellect to name-drop professors who work at the school where he studies. I also give him my business email, in case he wants to send me his work. The convo is effortless. Apparently, I’ve got more game than Milton Bradley, even at 3 in the am! We even start speaking in Spanish, so you know he’s down with the multi-culti flavor.

When I start to exit the station so that I can catch a cab due to train malfunction, he actually comes out of the subway and waits with me!* What?! I had no idea what was happening. When I insisted that he not miss his train, he said, “No, let me be a gentleman.”

A what?

I’ve heard tell of these “gentlemen,” but (as you know from so many posts) so rarely meet them. See, they don’t raise men right in our homeland. A stranger would never escort a lady out of the subway unless he wanted to drag her to a back alley and put her soon-to-be-severed head in a bag.

This is one more reason I’ve got to get out of America.

So, like, I know I can't put all my eggs in this foreign basket, but I'm not asking for much. I just want him to draw me a la Jack and Rose in Titanic, and take me to his homeland where I will become Black Aphrodite.



* Do you know three cabs REFUSED to take me to Harlem as I tried to get home?! The Greek man had to actually ask the fourth driver to, “take this beautiful woman home so she can sleep.” You know this world is too hot of a mess!

Heels and Faggoty Attention

I'm wearing high heels today.
I feel different.

My calves look like two twizzlers and feel just as strong.

It's funny, cause people totally think I'm a fancy lady now. As I was walking across 8th street, this homeless man said, "Hey, good looking. Someone's got a million bucks!"

I guess when you're homeless, it seems like everyone has a million bucks compared to you-- but I still think it's because of my fancy shoes. They're black patent leather wedges. I'm also wearing a dress, which is out of control! OMG! PLAYING GENDER!

Speaking of "playing gender," this video was brought to my attention by one of my main gays. His email said: "If you really love your fans, you'll share this with them." And since I really love everyone, I figured I'd pass this on.

It both entertains and excites me. I think I may love Adam Joseph. It's about a group of sassy gay men flirting and impressively dancing for a straight man. It's called FAGGOTY ATTENTION. I think my favorite is the pre-song cell phone call, where Adam says he's "here with my girls." But they're guys. Get it? Gender is a performance. Like my high heels.

That's what we call a tie-in, people.

Can She Make it Anymore Obvious?

So, I kind of detest Avril Lavigne.

I just wish she didn't think she was so clever and interesting. She's just not. I am. She's not. I've decided these are facts. Example? Lyrics from the hit song "SK8er Boi":

She was a girl/ He was a boy/ Can I make it anymore obvious?/ He was a punk/ She did ballet?/ What more can I say?

Um.... what?
There's so much more she could say. The question is, can she make it any more heteronormative?

Yet for some reason, she is famous and I am forced to hear her off-pitch voice screeching in my ears.

The latest assault: "When You're Gone." I saw the video for the first time this morning. As the title indicates, it's about missing someone you love and wanting them back. My first problem came when I saw the three relationships that are meant to epitomize feelings of longing:
1. an elderly man whose wife has just died.
2. a preppy girl torn from the arms of her punk-ish boyfriend by her harsh mother. (um, SK8er Boi part 2, anyone?)
3. a pregnant woman whose husband is overseas in Iraq.

How Avril can even think missing some dude is the same as an old man losing his only love and preparing to go to her funeral is beyond me. Is this some attempt to appeal to the AARP crowd? I don't think it's gonna happen, April-- yeah, I'm calling her April. F this quirky S.

I am also sick and tired of seeing Iraq on commercial television. For some reason, I find it so offensive-- kinda like the movies Amistad and the television miniseries Roots. There are certain atrocities that cannot be rendered on film in an attempt to "give us access." Nothing you can create that requires a commercial break can accurately portray the suffering-- or reality-- of historical OR CURRENT events. It's just so rude.

I digress.

At the end of the video, the old man goes to his wife's funeral, the preppy girl survives, and the pregnant wife, worried sick over her husband, finds out she's all right. YAY!

My problem with this is:

The pregnant woman finds out her husband is all right VIA TEXT MESSAGE! It reads:
I'm okay. I miss u.

Um... can we get text messages from Iraq?
If so, then we should be getting a whole lot more information.
Do the soldiers have unlimited nights and weekends, too?
Why are we having children send poorly written, inspirational construction paper creations via snail mail if they've got the T-Mobile text plan?

If they can text and keep in touch, is Avril implying that the war isn't so bad after all?

Is Avril Lavigne a Canadian supporter of George Bush?
See for yourself. And think about it.

I Wish I Was Still Writing Film Papers

Have you seen that movie "Village of the Damned"? It is a remake of a 1960s film made in 1995, and stars Kirstie Alley and Christopher Reeve. It's about this small town that suffers from a blackout, after which all the women in the town simultaneously become pregnant with alien spawn.

Yeah, I know, it's pretty great.

Clearly, people know something's awry when everyone gets pregnant on the same day. And, as one woman eerily notes, "The Roberts' girl was a virgin."

Dun-dun-dun!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (is that how you write scary music?)

In the town meeting-- yes, in 1995 there were still towns small enough to hold meetings-- Kirstie (who plays a doctor-- hahah, I thought she owned a bar!) says that the government wants to study them and is offering to give each woman $3,000 a month if she carries her child to term.

I find this film to be a period piece, with it's quaint, small-town setting, and Kirstie's shoulder pads. See below:

Anyway, I think what I love about this movie is that the alien babies are all Aryan visions of wonder, almost to the point of being Albino terrors. Even the Asian woman's baby comes out looking like Hitler's wet dream. Clearly, this should have been the first sign that these children were up to no good.

But, as you know, if it's white, it's right, so it took a lot of violent acts for the parents to realize that the kids were evil monsters sent from a far off planet to take over earth. It wasn't until they did this:

that it was too late for the townspeople of Midwich.

These kids used to appear to me in my nightmares.

What I noticed this time around is that the first two people to be killed in this film were Asian women. I wonder what John Carpenter is trying to say here. Does he hate Asians?!

I think so.

Sojo's Sadness.... Turns to Anger!

THIS POST HAS BEEN TAKEN DOWN DUE TO INTERNATIONAL DRAMA.

Friday Night (Amstel) Lights

So I woke up at 10 am Saturday morning.

In a bed that wasn't mine own.

And I wasn't wearing any pants.

I jumped up and turned over to find Litsa, my ultimate savior and soul sister, asleep next to me. Of all the beds to wake up in, I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn't next to some strange clergyman feeling oddly violated.

The last thing I remember is using the restroom with Colin's boyfriend, Jon, around 1 am. Prior to that, a bald man in a suit bought me a drank, much in the style of T-Pain.

Wait, does this sound like a bad Lifetime movie? No, I don't think it was. Though blacking out-- wait, no WHITING OUT*-- was uncharacteristic, I don't think he raised the roofie. Recounting my evening, I had about 9 dranks. 9! And I don't play football and I'm a dainty lady.

So, I woke up to find that my pants were in a pile on the floor and they were soaking wet. Why? Litsa and I don't know. What she was able to tell me was this:

1. We left the bar around 1:30, where the bald man told her not to let me leave, as I was the prettiest girl there. She then asked him if we were related-- which wouldn't be surprising given my week.

2. Apparently, instead of being put in a cab home (as we should have been), a friend took us to another bar, where he bought us two Amstel lights and sat us down while he hung out with a group of his friends. Yep-- we were "those girls." Now, when I discovered this, I knew I must have been out of my mind-- an Amstel... light?! Not only do I not drink beer, I do not believe in light beer as a concept. I asked Litsa if I actually consumed said "beverage," and she said yes. This is when I should have been given smelling salts.

3. There was a box of instant macaroni and cheese on her dresser. We had purchased this around 3 am at a bodega. Why, I do not know. We can only be thankful we did not attempt to cook this macaroni and cheese.

4. As I walk around her apt, searching in vain for my wallet, I notice my right calf and left hip are swollen and sore. Apparently, I fell.... several times.

5. Luckily, I have my house keys and cell phone. I look in my phone and see several text messages from a tall man I'd met earlier, asking me where I was. Apparently, I had texted him and we were scheduled to meet up.
Who am I?

Litsa then tells me I called him in the cab on the way to her house-- what did I say? Mystery number 37 of the night.

I offer to buy Litsa brunch, and discover that my entire wallet is missing. Debit card, metrocard, license. Shoot me now.

I finally make it home, after dealing with Bank of America (well, when you're on 125th street, it's Bank of African America) about a new card, and see the following text message from Litsa: "Mystery #50 of the night.... blood on my tv."

Did we kill a man just to watch him die?

I have no idea what the hell went on.

I then get a call on Saturday evening from a Turkish man named Onur who doesn't speak much English. He wants to hang out with me.

Um..... help?

I also get a text message from a unidentified number:
"Sorry about last night and for calling so late."
I write back: "It's okay, who is this?"
The sender replies: "Dan."

Dan is someone I kissed about 2.5 weeks ago at a club on the Lower East Side. What he said to me at 1:45 am Friday night is, of course, another unknown.

In an attempt to take Saturday night slowly and soberly, I prepare to head home early from a club. Who do I pass on my way out but my EX BOYFRIEND, who I haven't seen in 7 months. He is an Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college.

Needless to say, I'm a hot mess. It's 9:30 am and I'm blogging because I am unable to sleep.

And my Australian lover hasn't emailed me back. It's been 4 days. He works as a web designer, so we all know he's on the computer/internet all the live-long day!
Apparently, SoTru got a little too truthful in her last email.

If anyone wants to hug me, I would greatly appreciate it. I need a tender touch.



*that's what SoTru's calling it now-- I'm boycotting the association of blackness with bad things. Besides, it's like someone covered up the last three hours of my night, much in the way White Out covers penmanship errors.

Trapped in the CLUTCHES OF R. KELLY!

I have come to one conclusion this weekend:

R. Kelly is an egomaniacal genius.

Yes, I watched the latest installment of his urban opera-- a.ka. 'hip-hopera'-- 'Trapped in the Closet.'

And I don't think I've had so many emotional orgasms in one hour.

Chapters 13-22 begin with what may be the greatest recap in the history of cinema and television. First of all, R. Kelly is dressed in a blindingly white suit-- he is a black angel Gabriel. As he comments on the action thus far, he uses the refrain "Oh SHIT!!"-- Which is exactly how the viewer feels with each twist and turn.

LOOK!!! It's THREE R. Kellys! And they are all saying "OH SHIT!!" And I'm sitting there, going "OH SHIT!" not only because TITC is so intense, but because there are now THREE R. KELLYS for my eyes to feast upon!!!

Anyway, after the recap, we are brought to 13, where Sylvester and Twan "embark on a serious errand." I am on the edge of the couch-- not only due to the drinking game that I've invented, which requires you take a sip of your DRANK every time someone brandishes a barretta--but because Twan is one of the most capable can-do ex-convicts I've ever seen. Any mission he's on has to be for serious. In chapter 5(ish), Twan comes to his sister Gwendolyn's house straight from his 3-year prison stint, only to be shot in the scuffle between Sylvester and the policeman. As Gwendolyn says, "my brother's been through alot/and now to come home from prison and get shot," we instantly feel sympathy for this innocent bystander-- and this sympathy becomes awe as Twan refuses to go to a hospital to tend to his gunshot wound. He simply asks for the bathroom, where, in a McGuyver-esque fashion, he cleans and covers his beefy arm with gauze.

Clearly, Twan spent those three years in prison studying for the MCATs and getting an associate's degree in nursing. And doing bicep curls.
As Sly drives, Twan begins to roll a marijuana cigarette-- much to Sylvester's dismay. "Man, you must be crazier than a fish with titties if you think you're gonna smoke that in here," he sings.

Yes. Re-read that again. CRAZIER THAN A FISH WITH TITTIES. This is the only phrase I will ever use to describe something ridiculous again.

Anyway, this errand involves Sylvester meeting with Kathy-- aka Queen of the Black TRESSES! Her hair is unbe-weave-able, and her blonde locks make her a bit hard to identify for those who aren't sufficiently obsessed with every twist and turn of this magnum opus.

As Sly and Kit-Kat recap their issues in the diner over dranks, their waitress continues to butt in, and tells them to "keep it real" as Sly leaves her a hefty tip. Initially, this character with the odd twitch seems be as irrelevant as Rosie the nosy neighbor, but by now I've learned better than to doubt R. Every character who appears in this seedy version of a Tyler Perry musical has a purpose, and will undoubtedly carry a mysterious "package."

Their waitress is none other than TINA, the woman who Twan blames for his prison sentence. And she works with Roxanne, a cook at the restaurant who jumps from the kitchen holding a skillet, ready to bust some heads. Twan bursts into the restuarant, hell bent on exacting vengance on these two good-for-nothing hos. R. Kelly reminds him what awaits him if he acts on his rage: life in prison. Here, we see Professor R. making an insightful commentary on the US Prison system: those who enter rarely leave with a chance at rehabilitation.

We discover through excellent flashbacks (almost Hitchcockian in their scope and vision) that Tina never ratted out Twan because.... SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY.

OF COURSE she was. What else I was expecting, I don't know.

Chapters 15-17 explore this former trio's past and their future, as we now learn that Tina and Roxanne are an item.

This is R. Kelly's second introduction of a homosexual relationship into the world of TITC. What is shocking here is that, unlike in the case of Chuck and Rufus, R. Kelly is less judgmental of Tina and Roxanne's union. He brandishes his baretta (for the 75th time), but falters, saying, "Y'all lucky I like that kinda shit, or both y'all asses would be dead." What R. Kelly does here is perpetuate the stereotype that lesbians are hotter than regular women-- and, in this instance, they should actually be allowed to live and thrive, like characters in a BET version of "The L Word."

Chapter 18 wrenches us from the gorgeous visions of lesbian love and shuttles us to the church, where we see Pastor Rufus in his chair of holy righteousness (though we all know he's living life on the down low). R. Kelly employs his second wig as he embodies the choir leader, and sings to the city's head pimp, Lucious (also played by R. Kelly). Clearly, R. has taken a page from the Eddie Murphy book of blackting-- use wigs and prosthetics to become as many humorous 1-dimensional characters as possible, thereby winning your audience with your tongue-in-cheek slapstick.

BOTH OF THESE MEN ARE R. KELLY!!! He is both pimp and churchgoer, good and evil. Brilliant!

As the choir sings to Lucious to find Jesus, we see that Chuck has called Rufus on his celly and begs him to come back. Chuck even threatens Rufus with contacting the media, and Rufus asks if he can see him. Chuck tells him no, because... HE'S IN THE HOSPITAL!!!
Cut to Chuck in a wheelchair with bandages around his head.

In the span of no more than 48 hours, Chuck has gone from a sassy, knife-wielding, popped collar-wearing virile black male to an incontinent hospital patient who has had some sort of brain surgery.

The only answer: he's got "the package."

Nosy Rosie's husband Randolph overheard Chuck and Rufus' conversation while hiding in the-- yep, you guessed it-- CLOSET of Rufus' office. He immediately goes to his gossiping wife and tells her that Chuck has "the package." This then leads to a dynamic and emotionally intense telephone tree (you know, the kind the PTA used to tell each other what to bring to the bake sale) where every character discusses who may or may not have "the package."

WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PACKAGE?????

R. Kelly never explains. While the logical conclusion would be AIDS/HIV, who calls it a package?
Oh, look honey-- UPS just brought us a brand new bundle of AIDS!!!!!

I don't think so. Who would ever sign off on such a package?

But, then again, logic is not what R. Kelly has proven to be about in the creation of this epic work of demoralizing black people. Would he really create a world in which NO ONE uses a condom? Even after they help each other cheat by introducing each other to possible sex partners? This seems a little too ridiculous. But, then again, Professor Kelly is crazier than a fish with titties.

And I love every minute of it.

I will actually be creating my own version, called "Locked in the Foyer," which will expose the seedy underbelly of white suburbia. It will star Joe John Sanchez III as the narrator, and Colin Casey as a meddling pool boy.

Dog Days of Summer

I am sorry y'all, but I have to rant. I have been trying my best to shake off the years of servitude and oppression that have been heaped upon brown people the world over. I try not to look at Aryan youth and see their evil ancestors, and I try not to cringe when I hear "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer"-- I used to hear "Adolf, the Mustached Hate-Mongerer."

But then I read about a Caucasian hot mess and feel like I need to call it out.

U.S. hotel billionaire Leona Helmsley (not related to BLACKtor Sherman Helmsley, from the hit show "Amen") left her dog-- a WHITE maltese named "Trouble"--TWELVE MILLION DOLLARS.

Okay, now I know White folks love their dogs. But dogs are NOT people, people! I thought it was bad enough when y'all let them lick your face and whatnot, but this is ridiculous. Do you know how many orphans you could feed with 12 million dollars? Shit, do you know how many of ME you could feed with 12 million dollars?!!

This is reason # 248 why WHITE FOLKS DON'T NEED MONEY.

They waste it! And then, when they get guilty, they start shopping at thrift stores. Oh, great, yay! YOU BEAT ALL THE POOR PEOPLE TO THE CLOTHES!

What I love is that Ms. Helmsley was nicknamed the "Queen of Mean," for her "penny-pinching and hard-nosed work ethic." So tell me what kind of flippin' work that dog did to earn 12 million dollars? Did it go down on her on a regular basis? Or is it just getting money for being WHITE?!

Whew. Sorry y'all, I just got a little heated. I can't even handle the bizarro-ness of our world when a single dog has more money than a developing country.

Massa Helmsley, can I get some veal in my puppy chow?!

The Dirrrty South.... What?!

Guys, this weekend was tough. I stepped outside of my safe space. I went below the Mason-Dixon line to ATL, aka HOT-lanta, aka The Dirrrrty South-- just because my cousin's wife decided to get knocked up.

And it took me 15 hours to get there.

I hate Delta Airlines. Like Southern character actress Delta Burke, it is shifty, untrustworthy, and full of dead weight. It failed me terribly.

Here is a timeline of the madness, which I logged as it happened, because it was so unbelievable. I don't know why I'm surprised that I was oppressed, seeing as I was heading to the South.

4:00pm: Sojourner and her mother* hop on Delta flight 521, a direct flight to ATL.

7:00pm: A voice comes over the intercom system: "Hello folks, this is Captain Everything-I-Say-Is-Unintelligible-Except-For-The-Word-'Turbulence'-And-'Stay Calm.' We've got some storm clouds and have been circling up here for a while now and are starting to run out of fuel. We're going to divert to Augusta for a moment to refuel. Just sit tight; we'll be on our way."

7:45 pm: We land in Augusta, Georgia, so that the plane can refuel. The engines are turned off, which cuts off our air conditioning.

Sojourner, along with 183 other passengers, sits in an airplane with no air conditioning for TWO HOURS.
In Georgia, in August heat.
Can you handle this truth?

9:45 pm: We are allowed to get off the plane and stand on the tarmac to keep cool. I've never been on a tarmac before. There are fire trucks and everything. I feel like it's the end of an action movie, and I'm hoping that Bruce Willis is going to get in the cockpit and make magic happen.

10:30 pm: We are all rushed back on the plane by the flight attendants/lying whores. Still skeptical, I slowly saunter onto the sauna that is Delta Flight 521. I won't believe we're taking off til the houses look like Christmas lights.

10:50 pm: We are ushered off the plane, as the Captain (who I now call "Asshole") says that due to FAA regulations, pilots cannot fly for more than 8 hours in a shift-- and we've just run out of time.

We head into the Augusta, Georgia "airport"-- at best, it can be described as a rest stop with plane-like paraphenalia on the walls. This airport has a seating capacity of about 200, and their "food court" is a yogurt stand. Which is closed. No one is allowed to get their stowed luggage, and our only sustenance is to be found in a vending machine.
Did you know Fritos come in a chili-cheese flavor?

12:15 am: We are told an alternate plane will arrive at 1:30 am, with a new, refreshed crew ready to take us to ATL. We are also told that food is on it's way.

12:30 am: An airport worker wheels in a cart filled with bottled water, potato chips, and hostess cupcakes. This is our "food"-- a trans-fat caravan. I got better eats on the plantation!

1:54 am: A plane still hasn't arrived. We are told by a sassy, surly Augusta airport whore that one will come at 3:00 am. I am sitting in the first row of seats, watching a rerun of The Nanny on Lifetime.

Now is not the time for Fran Drescher and her screechy comedy of manners. I am going to die.

3:30 am: Still no plane. Suddenly, a new airport wench tells us a plane will arrive in "3 to 8 minutes," and to use the bathroom and generally prepare to go.

4:15 am: I have decided that Delta time is the equivalent of dog years. I am talking to a nice firefighter and a sassy gay man, lamenting our fate. One man says, "We could have flown to Australia in all this time!"
I shed a tear for my lost love.

6:40 am: A plane finally arrives. I pass out as soon as I take my seat, but before my XXX-rated Harry Potter fantasy reaches a crescendo, I am brutally awakened by harsh lights.

Did I mention the flight from Augusta to Atlanta is only 20 minutes? It's also a mere 2-hour drive. Had Delta (Burke) Arlines had any sense, they would have gotten some busses and driven us to freedom (I never thought I'd refer to the South as freedom, but this is what Delta has done to me).

And when I arrived, bleary eyed and surly, I had a few hours to sleep before going to a baby shower, where good times were had by... some... I think.

This is me wearing a diaper made out of toilet paper. This was supposed to be a GAME. This 2-ply padding was rapidly applied by my mother as we competed against other female pairs. I was not allowed to help her in any way, other than raising my legs and turning my bum.

I am holding our first place prize: moisturizing antibacterial hand soap.

That's so a thing a baby shower would give you. Lame. The hostess should have been handing out condoms and IUDs, so that others don't suffer her fate.

*Who knew Sojourner's mother would still be alive?!

I'm SPRUNG, y'all!

Oh my god guys, it's been, like, forever and a day.

Which, if you were wondering, is 11 days. So when someone says they'll "love you forever," they really mean "a week and a half."

Anyway, here's a nice long post, complete with interactive games! YAY!

Speaking of 10 days and loving forever, I was unable to blog due to an all-consuming love affair I had with an Australian fellow. Yes, folks, I went down under and got me a crocodile hunter! (RIP, Steve Irwin)

For serious, though-- I am swooning and wishing I was spooning with a burly, bald Aussie. Let me tell you why:

1. A foreign man will do anything for a green card-- and I will do anything for a foreign man!
(If you know what I mean... and I think you do.)

2. The foreign men love the blacktress. He seriously asked me if I'd tried modeling. Um, okay, maybe you don't all know me, but I'm not that fine. It's just that they don't get this flavor of ice cream down under and they all want a taste!

3. He is a creative soul with a heavily metrosexual side. This is, of course, very important to me as someone who is deeply influenced by the gays. They even named a pair of shorts after him!

4. The accent. Obvi. Even when he said "fuck!" he sounded intelligent and kind of sexy.

5. He also works as a web designer and owns his own company (you know I love a can-do man!). Note how he refers to himself as a "freedom fighter"! Um, hello-- I'm a freedom writer! Talk about meant to be. Besides, any White man who's down with freedom is down with Sojo.


Okay, so, on a scale from 1 to crazy, how wrong is it for me to arrive on the doorstep of Australia all romantic comedy-style and propose to him?


What I liked the most about this foreign man was his forthrightness and honesty. As you know, I'm all about the TRUTH. But no matter how militant I am, I know I'm not the first freed slave who can read or write. However, every guy with a semi-formed brain expects kudos for correctly identifying an emotion! What is that about?! Sorry, dude, but I've been saying how I felt since I was 2 years old: "Mommy, me hungry. Me potty. Sleep-time." I didn't get a damn cookie every time I didn't crap my pants--why should you?!

But have you ever noticed that when a guy "tells you what's up," he's not actually saying anything? I realized this last week when hanging out with my newest grown and sexy friend, Litsa. We played this fun game where she spoke Heteromanese, and I translated in standard English. Here's how it goes:

HE SAYS:
Sorry I haven’t called, shit’s been crazy.
IT MEANS:
I have AIDS.
OR
I’m moving.

HE SAYS:
Yeah, I’ll call you later.
IT MEANS:
I don’t like you but I have to end this conversation so I can go play beer pong.


HE SAYS (in the middle of a serious conversation over dinner):
Here, have a shrimp.
IT MEANS:
Please don’t start crying.

HE SAYS:
I’ve had a lot of crap going on.
IT MEANS:
I just found out my ex is pregnant.
OR
I’ve had diarrhea for a week.

HE SAYS:
Like, I really like you, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.
IT MEANS:
I am incapable of wiping my ass and whistling a jaunty tune simultaneously, let alone balancing a relationship and a social life.

(Why this is so hard is beyond me. I mean, even in the caveman days the Neanderthal went out, clubbed the mammoth, dragged it back home for dinner, and then made sweet love to his hairy woman!)

NOW YOU PLAY!!!!

Fill in the blanks by posting comments on my wall. Winners will get a dinner with me that they get to cook at their home. YAY! Reversals on slavery!

HE SAYS:
I’ll talk to you later, okay?
IT MEANS:
?


HE SAYS:
I really want to be friends with you.
IT MEANS:
?




HE SAYS:
I’m sorry you’re upset. I didn’t know you felt that way.
IT MEANS:
?



HE SAYS:
You know how I get, babe.
IT MEANS:
?



As you can imagine, when I was cuddling with the Australian and he said, "I wish I wasn't leaving," I fell in deep.


I am currently planning a telethon, where I will put on a minstrel show in exchange for $1 donations to pay for a plane ticket Australia. I will need approximately 1500 donations. Let's get started, people! I'll bring the shoe polish if you help me get my true love.

We Don't Love Them Hos

Is it possible to be "dating" someone for less than a month and already be in a loveless marriage?

Seriously.

Last Sunday, I was at the home of a gentleman caller and we were watching "Entourage." We already seem to have a routine, though we've only gone out 5 times.

Actually, scratch that, we've gone out twice-- the last few "outings" have involved watching tv in his apartment, meaning that I've left my house, but he's pretty much stayed put.

I had seen him earlier in the day, so I just popped over with a pint of red wine sorbet (my new jam and jump off, you HAVE TO try it) and got settled in to watch a show about celebrities pretending to be celebrities and the wackiness they get into (it's very meta).

As we watch, the gentleman sprawls himself out on the couch and puts his legs over mine. I enjoy people who are oddly comfortable, and it's his house, so he can put his legs wherever he wants. After the show, he turns on a baseball game and begins staring at the screen in a trance.

Sports = ME BORED NOW. I start reading one of the many comic book magazines lying around (he works for the magazine-- he's not 14) and am ready to go home. When Vincent Chase is no longer on screen, I'm done (Adrien Grenier is a tall glass of soy milk-- he's so olive and yummy).

"I should go soon," I say to the 33-year-old baseball addict who "lives a healthy lifestyle" and sends me such text messages as "you love the jews, don't you?" and calls me "babe" unironically.

He does not move, he does not flinch, he does not look at me. Still staring at the TV, he responds with:

So, you wanna have a quickie?

I was so confused. "Huh? Are you talking to me?"

This man is soulless. He does not have a tender bone in his body. I think it's hilarious. I can say whatever, whenever, and he remains unphased. I don't know if he can handle Sojourner's truth so much as just accepts it.

I will never love him.


"Um, do you want to?" I say sarcastically, commenting on his less-than-enthused tone.

"Yeah, I think we should."

I think we should???? What does that mean? What is "should"? Are we a couple struggling desperately to conceive?-- methinks not. There is no "should," with Sojourner! Getting love from Sojo is something he WANTS. It's not like eating your vegetables or not kissing a swarthy Italian who works for Prada-- those are things you should do, but sometimes you just can't help yourself.

This is what came up when I did an interweb search for "loveless marriage." I totally feel like that lady, only I'm black--something that my "date" never ceases to let me forget.

I wouldn't mind being a loveless marriage with Adrien. I love that he just refuses to tame his wild eyebrows.

Hot... or Not?

Have you ever seen someone who was really, really hot? Like, so hot you think, "you're too hot to live. I have to kill you, because if you're single, you're a threat to society, and you're too hot for just one person."

I felt like this about an hour ago on the subway. I was hotter than a ho in church and looked like an 8 year old who didn't know how to eat properly: due to the underground railroad's malfunction, I had to walk in the sweltering heat to work, and arrived so drenched that I had no choice but to change into the outfit I'd brought for post-work play time. Unfortunately, this meant that I spent most of the work day looking like a whore.

Then, to top it off, during lunch with my boss (did he ask me to lunch cause I looked like a whore?) at a BBQ restaurant, I spilled bbq sauce on my WHITE PANTS (see previous post titled, "epiphany."). This meant I spent the rest of the day looking like an out-of-work prostitute who hadn't showered in days.

Anyway, when I finally made it on a train home, I was packed like a sardine next to this HOT tall glass of milk. He fit all my criteria: he was over 6'1", had a chiseled jaw, strong hands, and lips like a girl.

As I'm enjoying brushing up against him and judging him based on his iPod menu (he had The Killers!), we are forced apart by the availability of two new seats. We sit across from each other, and I'm able to eye fuck the shit out of him.

But soon, around 103rd street, the bloom began to fade from the rose. His Angie Jolie lips were starting to get on my nerves. It looked like he was, like, really pouting. But not in a sad, my-ice-cream-cone-fell-on-the-floor-two-seconds-after-I-bought-it way. He was for serious modeling in his head. I started to think, "Wait, does he think he's Derek Zoolander? Is this 'Magnum'?" I started to get turned off by what was clearly posing.

It sucks when you think you can marry someone you meet on the subway and they don't get off the train soon enough and you see them for who they truly are: a pouty wanna-be male model in a lilac shirt listening to The Killers.

Well, I guess it's okay cause now I don't have to kill him to save humanity.

Mondays with Artists....

So, I sorta like my job. Not only do I put the “ASS” in “assistant” on a regular basis, I spend a lot of time talking to our subscribers and interfacing over the telephone with artists.

I love talking to artists. Some days I am caught off-guard by a verbose, lonely painter who thinks that because we wrote an article on them, and I answer the phones, I’m clearly the president, treasurer, and social chair of their fan club.

Today was one those days. And in true woman of color-writer fashion, I provide you, gentle reader, with a transcript. All the words of the artist are completely true (I took notes once it became clear this was going to be a doozy), and I merely agreed. Please read on…


Sojourner Truth: Good morning, Art Magazine,* this is Sojourner Truth.

Crazy Artist Lady: Hello, Sojourner, this is Ellen Tembly. I received my slide returns, but still haven’t gotten copies of the September issue I was featured in.

ST(reverting to my slave ways): I am so sorry, Ms. Tembly. I’ll get that order right out to you—can you give me your address again?

CAL: Yes—but, I have to tell you I ended up driving an hour away to another bookstore just to pick up a copy. I can’t believe it.

ST: Oh my, that is a hike!
(If you found the magazine, then why are you calling me?)

CAL: And it’s no surprise, given the way my day has been going.
(Uh-oh. Here we go. I’m about to get T.M.I.—I can feel it.)

ST: Well, why don’t we get your order out and turn this day around! (insert fake laugh. She finally gives me her address. While I have her placated, I plug our website like a good employee) Ms. Embry, do you have a website? Your can put a link to your article on your own site—it’s very popular now. (This is not true.)

CAL: Oh, yes, I’d love to do that—but I can’t find someone to help me with my site. In fact, I’m sitting here looking at a bill for $800.00 from a web designer, and I just don’t understand it.

ST: $800.00—oh my goodness?! For what?! (Acting like I care and sharing her pain is part of serving the customer. It’s also called “mirroring,” and is an excellent psychological tool for gaining one’s trust and favor)

CAL: Well, quite frankly, I don’t know. Do you know who could help me?

ST: I don’t know anyone, no—but I’m sure there are a lot of young people in your neighborhood who could help you for a much cheaper—

CAL: I was working with this one woman, Carol—she is on the list of people who are the bane of my existence. (Now knowing that Ellen has a list, I am determined not to end up on it) She just uses me because I’m the best artist on her website.
(I am loving Ellen’s brutal honesty and sheer hatred for this Carol person—who I’ve decided is a talentless bitch. I laugh in agreement.)
She’s just one of those people who make me feel the need to take a bath after speaking to them.
(Haven’t we all been there?)
Well, anyway, for a while, my neighbor’s daughter was going to help me—she’s very technically savvy—but then her husband almost killed her and put her in the hospital, so she’s can’t help me. She’s busy getting a divorce—at least, I hope she is.

ST: Well, so do I!
(Pause. I’ve been on the phone for approximately 7 minutes and 30 seconds. I have her address and can send her magazines. How can I get off the phone and go to lunch and stop hearing about domestic violence?)
So, I will send this article out and get you the website link—

CAL: That’d be great—really, the web is all I have now. I don’t have a gallery.
(Cue strings….)

ST: Yeah, a lot of artists have sites now.

CAL: Well, I can’t even get a teaching gig!

ST: Really? But you’re an American Artist!!!

CAL: Pricheson hired me, then took it back.

ST: What?! How can that be?!

CAL: Yep, yep. It happened. Do you want to hear some gossip, Sojourner?! I love to gossip! I have this new neighbor, and I've just been filling her in on everything. I told her, "don't go over to that lady's house, cause she'll take your cat and won't give her back."

ST: Oh my goodness!
(What the hell is she talking about? Did someone steal her cat? Or did she eat it and forget?)

CAL: I bet SHE thinks I'm bonkers myself.
(Much like I do.)
Anyway, Pricheson is angry at me and I don’t know why.
(Could it be because she is abrasive and completely lacking in boundaries/the woman of my dreams?)
And it’s funny, because Pricheson got me the article in your magazine.

ST: Really? Well that is odd.

CAL: Didn’t you wonder why I said I only use Pricheson products in the article?

ST: Yes, I did, actually.
(No, I didn’t.)

CAL: Oh, Sojourner, I’m such a whore it isn’t funny. (She then emits a loud cackle that is still ringing in my ears) I’m actually getting ready to paint a portrait of myself as a trollop—and I’m 64 years old, mind you.
(The timer on the phone reads 12:15)
Yep, I found this blond wig, rhinestone boots, glitter glasses—it’s going to be called “Art Sells.”
(I want to tell Ellen that whores don’t wear glasses, but it's best not to engage her.)

ST: That’s hilarious!
(I’m uncomfortable.)

CAL: Now I just need a place to show it. Finding a gallery is a lot like a marriage—and I’ve had two of those—but none now, I’m single. My first husband was my manager, and that didn’t work out. He threw in the towel. I wasn’t his first priority—clearly!
(I’m really uncomfortable.)
It’s just hard for us artists—we’re just at the bottom. My second husband used to say we’re “lower than whale shit.” [she laughs] He always had these colorful phrases.
(Was she implying that he was “colored,” and therefore “colorful”?)

ST(awkward laughter): Oh no! (pause) Well, Ms. Tembly let me go process your order.

CAL: Oh, I guess I need to let you go.

ST: You have a good day now, Miss Tembly-- you promise?

CAL: I'll try.


The worst part of it was, that after 20 minutes and 12 seconds of emotional catharsis, I still forgot to send her copies of the magazines.




*I have changed the names of all proper nouns in this post to protect my occupation. My job may not be great, but being employed is better than being enslaved-- or broke.

We All Live in a Yellow Submarine

As I traverse the world of random dates and half-assed "relationships," I've been remembering the wise words of a man I met on the train to New Haven last year. His name was Rick. He was a fifty-something musician with scraggly teeth, leathery skin, and a pocket full of promotional stickers (and probably broken dreams). He and his lover Rose were on their way to Connecticut to spend time with Rick’s family.

I do not normally talk to strangers on the Metro North railroad. I prefer to use this time to read, listen to music, or write. However, the train was particularly crowded that day, and Rick and Rose had graciously moved their bags off the seat across from them as they saw me wandering aimlessly in search of a quiet corner. And, after asking me what I did for a living and where I was from, Rick imparted words of wisdom I will never forget.

“Well, good luck in life. This is a big time for you. You just go out there like a baby in a submarine—openin’ doors and pushin’ buttons. You’re an attractive girl, it’ll all work out.”

With that, he and Rose grabbed their bags, their empty bottles of hard lemonade, and got off at Bridgeport. As the doors dinged shut, I thought he was crazy, and promptly wrote down the misguided ravings of a lunatic. What would a baby be doing in a submarine? If said baby was in this submarine, wouldn’t opening doors cause water to rush in and kill the baby? Was that old guy hitting on me?

But now, his words ring true. He is clear as Swarovski crystal. I am indeed a baby—only 23 years young. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m crawling around this big, wide, ocean-like world, but I’m still protected—in a submarine, if you will. And if I’m going to navigate my way around, I better take some chances, push some buttons, and get this sub a-moving!

I’d like to think Rick was my guardian angel, sent down for an hour and fifteen minutes to show me the way.*

And I carry his words around in my back pocket along with his promotional sticker-- and a safety condom.

*He also told me to be careful if I was in Jamaica, cause those boys would "sweet talk me more than a sugar-covered doughnut." How could one man know so much?

The Vampire Slayer

So, I went on a "date" last night.

I have to use quotation marks because I'm not even sure what was going on. Do you ever find yourself in situations where you stop and ask yourself, "Am I on candid camera? Is this a bad Lifetime movie?"

I have these moments all the time, but since I relish awkward randomness (hence my love of internet dates), I do not run away from these gifts. In fact, I prefer to babble and just see exactly how tightly closed the envelope is, and how far I can push it.

For example: As I'm walking with my tall glass of milk, yoga studio-owning 38-year-old date, I casually say,

"I just don't know what to think, because of all my internet suitors, you're not obsessed with me. And I just don't get why not."

What a ridiculous thing to say. Cue laughter.

But no!!!! Apparently, this was a "crazy" thing to say-- which surprised me because he seemed to be able to handle Sojourner's truths thus far, was smoking weed on our date, and took me on a walk around the backwoods of Central Park after nightfall (where he showed me a flower garden which he described as "phallic"). If anything, I was playing the straight man. What I said was so un-humorous, that my "date" then says,

"Why do you need people to be obsessed with you? You feed on it, don't you? You have a vampiric quality."

Is this true? Am I a blood-sucking fiend out for the white male life force?

I don't think so-- I just want to get my O-face on (if you know what I mean, and I think you do...). And sometimes, my need to get my O-face on means I cut the bullshit. I want you to play your gender, woo me like the woman of your dreams, look me in the eyes and say,

"Girl, you're so beautiful, you could be a.... a waitress. No, no-- you're so beautiful, you could be an air hostess from the 1960s. No, that's not it, either. You're so beautiful, you could be a part-time model-- but you'd probably still have to keep your normal job."

Is that so wrong? So when I'm in your apartment watching tall, hot, crazy-eyed Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly," I start to get hot and bothered. And granted, I've called several friends to check on me to make sure I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere, but that's not cause I don't want to get my O-face on. It's because you haven't said the magic words. Part-time model, my friend.

I hope he calls me.

Inconvenient Truths

Sorry guys. For a hot minute I forgot I was a mad blacktress-- then I took a crazy improv class.

It wasn't any crazier or weirder than any acting class I've ever taken (except for the class I was in when another student referred to someone as "colored." Like, un-ironically. It was a dark day). But it was still awkward, which you know is my favorite thing ever, and I'd like to share it with you.

So, we were playing all these tender, heartwarming get-to-know-you-and-as-a-result-get-to-know-myself games (you know, the awkward ones you do during orientation week), and one of them involved standing in the middle of a circle, surrounded by the other classmates, who were seated. You then stated a fact about yourself (no lies!) and whoever shared that truth had to get up. The goal was to get another person's seat, thereby leaving another defenseless soul in the middle of the circle to share a truth about themselves.

It started off simply enough-- we began with physical characteristics that were easy to note in others. When it was my turn in the center, I felt like a buck on the auction block. Of course, I was the only blacktress in the room, and I'd chosen this day to wear a dress. There were few physical characteristics I had in common with my fellow classmates-- *oppression*. I had to settle for "Anyone who has polished toes, stand up!" just to get the other two women in the class moving.

After a few minutes of pointing out physical flaws in ourselves, we then had to state facts that were true for us, but not visible ("Anyone who has been to a foreign country!" for instance). By doing this, we'd share bits of ourselves and in turn realize we weren't alone. Magical.

Some things that I shared with the class:

Anyone who cried at the end of Harry Potter, stand up!
(no one did)


Anyone who has ever hooked up with someone they didn't like just cause they were bored, stand up!
(the people under 25 did)


Anyone who says they like children cause they know it's the right thing to say, but really don't, stand up!
(again, no one. This surprised me because, for real, most kids are annoying.)

Anyone who thinks race is a social construct, stand up!
(I don't know why I bothered.)


I am different and that is bad.

The Obvious Post

I don't get why Lohan has gone cray-cray. She was caught--much like Herbie--fully loaded. And I think her crazy parents have her in some sort of a trap. Maybe if she stopped hanging out with drunken MEAN GIRLS, she wouldn't need a PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION in some GEORGIA penitentiary to RULE over her. In her mug shot, she's all like, "this is JUST MY LUCK! That coke's not mine! It belongs to BOBBY"

I know I could go on a tirade about wealth and class and white power (yay!), but I won't, cause Sojo is about throwing curve balls. But I will share my favorite nugget from the Lohan debacle. Here is a quote from a prosecuting attorney:

"Whatever you have done in the past, do a 360-degree turn and go the other way," Barry Gerald Sands, a Century City defense attorney who's also a certified drug and alcohol counselor, said Wednesday.

Um, objection?
If Lindsay turned 360 degrees, wouldn't she be right back where she started?

And I was the one who had to fight for freedom?

I Know Who Killed You(r Career), Lindsay!
YOU DID!!!!!!!!!!!

Peonage Perpetrators

Am I the only one who has heard about this madness?!

Apparently, a southern black family was kept in slavery until the 1960s, under a practice known as peonage!!!

Oh, hell to the no!!!!

See, y'all just thought Sojourner was another angry blacktress, but this shit is fo' real!

FO' REAL!


News of this oppression comes on the heels of another oppression in my life: apparently, some internet gentlemen callers have found the blog and I've got to run around and explain myself.

Ain't it just like a white man to turn Sojourner's empowerment into his sob story?

Honey, if you can't handle Sojourner's Truth, stay off the plantation!

Mein Kampf-ortable Shoes II

So, apparently I'm not the only one who was shocked by the evil that lay deep within my sole.

I got several personal responses, including some of you who did your own googling to discover if this oppression was real. One friend, who lives in Korea, sent me this email:

Living in Korea, I see swastikas all the time as they are actually a sign first used by many Asian religions. The one in your shoe is actually the backwards one from this part of the world!!!
http://racked.com/archives/2007/05/02/walking_on_swastikas_should_we.php
That is a link from the shoe maker. It seems the Chinese manufacturer was putting them in there! Gah!
-B

So, apparently, this is an "asian symbol" that means, "peace and luck."
I don't believe in Asian symbols. They don't have parties. But you know who does have parties?
NAZIS!

epiphany

my life is awkward.

Internet Dating: Not Just for Pedophiles Anymore!

Okay guys, I'm not trying to, like, brag or anything, but I think I may be the hottest thing to hit the internet since the URL. Apparently, the gentlemen want to handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing BUT the Sojourner Truth-- and they want to HANDLE WITH CARE!!

I have not had any real love connections, but after every encounter I have left young gentlemen callers feeling like smitten kittens-- and not once has anyone attempted to fondle or impregnate me! I consider this a success, seeing as the chances of meeting a crazy on the internet in New York are as likely as finding a piece of hay in a... haystack.

(We won't go into the awkward date with the 33-year-old Russian radiologist who read my palm and told me I was "passionate lover" and when discussing our love of desserts-- specifically chocolate brownies and vanilla ice cream-- he said "It's a dessert that represents you and me."

You may not past go. You may not collect 200 dollars. Only Sojo can make racially charged food-related puns.)

After my 3 dates over the last 2 days, I urge the world to surf the interweb of love (i think that's going to be the title of my first album), and offer some advice and tips.

MASTER THE LINGO

OMG, I'm LOL'ing so much I have to BRB!!!

There are even more abbreviations when it comes to electronic love searches. Here are some I've learned:

LTR = Long Term Relationship
(unfortunately, my initial confusion led to me sending alot of emails about Frodo Baggins and the shire)

BBW= Big-Boned Women
Let's be real, big girls need love, too!

SBF= Single Black Female
(this is often seen preceded by the phrase "SWM seeks..." Holla!)

WTF, D?!= What The Fuck, Dude?!
This isn't particular to internet dating posts. This is just something I write to fellows who send me nude photographs.

Obviously I'm all about the truth, so I don't support putting up a fake picture, lying about your interests, or living a gender lie. I know we all want to seem "open-minded" and "laid-back," but there's one thing positive thing I've learned from racists: it's best to lay your cards out on the table, so people know what you're about. If you tell me you don't get why black women are always snapping their fingers, I will know you're insane and never speak to you again.

Things I told potential suitors I was "about": writing, reading (because I can), red wine, the mingling of the races, ghetto booties, offensive humor, and apple pie.

As a result of my candor, anyone who lacks an interest in miscegenation, baked goods, female literacy, or trunks filled with junk will not write me. I have saved everyone time.

DOs and DON'Ts

DO NOT try to hold my hand 10 minutes into our date like you're trying to recreate that Boys and Girls Club logo.

DO dress like the kind of gal who'd be a lady on the street, but a freak in the bed. (Ludacris is a misunderstood poet. I call his the real Songs of Innocence and Experience)

DO NOT send a photo taken 7 years earlier at your sister's wedding, where you're in fancy clothes you never wear and lack the 20 pounds of beer belly you currently possess. You are not telling the Sojourner Truth.

DO have a list of questions handy. You will find that many internet lovers are kind and gentle, but they lack the social skills to hold a conversation for multiple minutes. Be prepared with tidbits and fun facts. I suggest bringing Snapple caps.

DO avoid back alleys, underpasses, and any other darkened crevices. There could be dementors lurking about.... OR HE COULD TRY TO KILL YOU!

DO NOT get physical with your internet lover too soon, no matter how hot he/she/ze may be.
Trust me, I know it can be difficult (especially when you're feeling hornier than a boy scout at camp after lights out..... I mean, that's not how I feel or anything..... um.... LOOK OVER THERE!)

DO NOT, no matter how desperate for traffic you are, mention the title of your blog or your blogging alias to an internet suitor. This will prevent you from writing with candor ever again. Seriously, ask Mr. W.

Mein Kampf-ortable Shoes

Dear Diary,

Oppression is everywhere.

I am livid.

So, I hopped off the underground railroad (the 'B' train) a few days ago and headed in the house at the end of a long day. I spend alot of time walking in flats and my feet were killing me. As soon as I crossed my threshold, I pulled off my shoes and breathed a sigh of relief.

These shoes have seen the ins and outs of corners of Manhattan I wouldn't even mention on a drunken night; they are thoroughly worn into the ground. So much so, that when I lifted my foot out of my shoe, the thin brown lining (where one can find the lovely 'Steve Madden' label, which proves I'm bourgie) loosened from the inside. I pulled it out so that I could reapply it correctly, and I was witness to the darkest symbol the world has known.

There was, stamped on the inside of my shoes, a swastika.

How could this be???? I thought to myself in horror.


I, Sojourner, almost couldn't handle the truth of my own footwear.

I was at home. I was alone. There was no one to share the fear with.

I lifted up my shoe and brought it close to my face, eying it like a dead insect.

I turned it every angle, just to see if it could possibly be anything other than a symbol of hate-- but there was no denying Steve Madden's antisemitism.

I share this with you all in the hopes that we can band together and boycott the oppression of Steve Madden. Clearly, he is trying to keep down the OTHER. See for yourself:

The oppressor lives in my shoes........ I couldn't make this up if I tried.

10 Signs....

I've come to a new conclusion:
Men are like parking spaces-- they are either handicapped or taken!

And this handicap can come in many forms: emotional, physical, mental.

You would not believe how many conversations I've been having with my lady friends over guy drama. And in every case, we give ourselves a hard time, yet when it comes to the guy, we have lower standards than a county technical college. WTF?!

I myself have resorted to interweb dating. Yes, I'm doing it. If the gays can, so can I. We are both equally oppressed. Now, while this seems "unsafe," and "sketchy," I've found that knowing a guy doesn't preclude the aforementioned sketchiness.*

To prove it, I am going to take you on a trip, back in time and relive one of the worst dates in the history of life. I tell you all this not only to further prove my oppression, but in the hopes that you, gentle reader, will not make the same mistakes.

Ten Signs the Date Should Have Ended At “Hello”

10. He comes to your door with his hair dripping wet and when you ask if it’s raining, he proudly says, “No! I showered for you!” Any man who thinks bathing is a cause for celebration is a bad sign. If he wants accolades for something that basic, he’ll expect 76 trombones every time he opens a car door.

9. He then holds up a box of wine and suggests you take it with you to the restaurant. Box wine is to only be consumed by the following people in the following situations: 1. teenagers at a house party; 2. college students in a dorm room; 3. a teenager, visiting a college student’s dorm room.

8. Quick to get this show on the road, you grab your coat. Once outside, he asks if you can stop by your ex boyfriend’s house and pick up something he left there. Anyone content to make you this uncomfortable before you even have anything invested in them is far too presumptuous. At this rate, the second date will be at his granpappy’s wake!

7. While waiting for a table, he tells you about his study abroad experience in China. His favorite souvenir: his worm, which he named! Initially taken aback by his love of insects, you then learn that this worm was kept not in a cage or a cup with a hole in it, like an inquisitive little tyke. The worm was inside of him! Yes, he had a tapeworm that seemed to be difficult to get rid of. This is a sign that the only warm fuzzy feeling you’re going to have this evening is nausea.

6. He then follows up this tidbit of information with chit chat about his foot fungus.

5. He chooses a Thai restaurant and sizes up every waitress in the place. When you jokingly ask him if he “has a thing for Asian women” he excitedly says, “Yes.” Great, you’ve got a fetishizer on your hands.

4. When asked what he does for fun, he says, “There are just some nights when you just want to go out into the woods with your best friend and do some mushrooms, you know?”

No, you do not know.

3. After walking you back to your house, he says “Whoa. I think I gotta drop a deuce. Did your food taste weird?” He then lingers in the doorway.

2. The next night, you see him arm in arm with an Asian woman! I mean, make a decision man! Do you want a ride on the Underground Railroad, or do you want to hop onto the Orient Express?! Stop jerking me around!

1. Upon recapping the night with your friend (who obviously did some gossiping and googling to make sure this man was worth his weight in pad thai), you find out that he may have fathered an Asian baby while studying abroad! Had you received this nugget of information three days earlier, the date would not have taken place. Anyone who is fathering babies, then leaves them to suffer with SARS should be nowhere near your safe space! Where’s your respect, woman?!

I guess I could have titled this post: "Does he have an Asian baby? And other questions you won’t remember to ask until you learn the hard way."

So don't give me crap for internet dating. As you can see, I have nothing to lose.

*Yeah, used the words "aforementioned" and "preclude." You didn't know Sojo could roll like that, did you?!

Soul-searching cowboy + pizza-eating black girl

One would think that as a militant blacktress, the drunk white male would be my sworn enemy.

But as you know from my profile, there is nothing I love more than a tall white boy. Wait, make that a drunken foolish white boy. Not the grabby, belligerent ones, but the ones who are naturally awkward and drink in hopes of alleviating their innate lack of social skills. Unfortunately, the alcohol usually leads to rambling and accidentally spilling their beverage-- oh yeah, and objectifying me.

There is nothing I love more than being objectified. Quite frankly, my evening is not a success unless someone has referred to me as "shorty" or "ma" (paging Dr. Freud!), or told me my "ass is like damn in those jeans!"

Last night, shortly after 2 am on Avenue A, I was walking with friends and stopped outside of a bar. Out of nowhere lumbers a short man who can best be described as a misplaced cowboy. With tight black jeans, cowboy boots, hat, and a wonderful shirt with roses on the pocket flaps, I thought he might be an oppressor. I was wary as he approached me.

He then smiled at me and said hello, revealing the longest southern drawl this side of the Mason-Dixon line. This both softened me and shuttled me back to slavery days.

It was late, I was eating my post-midnight pizza to stave off drunken nausea, and this fellow from Baton Rouge wanted to chat.

After asking him if he was having fun and complimenting his ensemble (and telling him to be careful with these city girls), I walked off with my group. As I exited, he called out,

"GOODBYE, BEAUTIFUL PIZZA-EATING BLACK GIRL!!!"

Do you now see why I can't pass up a tall glass of milk? I'm not lactose intolerant if you're not blacktose intolerant-- and this man clearly wasn't. He had taken his Black-taid tablets that morning.

And he saw into my soul. He looked into my eyes and saw that at the core, underneath the banter and the hot dress, was a beautiful, pizza-eating black girl.

I miss you, Baton Rouge cowboy. I want to ride off into the sunset.

UnderPaid Negroes

As you all know, I am a blacktress. I use this term because unlike your every day actress, who is seized with low self-esteem, competition from other actresses, and the need to be perfect, I am also darker than a paper bag and 3/5 of a woman. This often means that when I audition for parts I play some marginal character-- perhaps a stepparent, an old wizened woman, or wicked witch (or otherwise "dark" character).

I know there are a dearth of roles available for blacktors and blacktresses. As well as Asian-tresses? And Latinators? No, that won't work-- it sounds like some kind of dinosaur.

Anyway, I'm done bitching. I am going to DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. As you also know, I am a woman of color and a writer. And I am currently working on a television series that will not only give black actors much-needed roles, but allow them to appear on screen with White actors.

My show is a prime-time drama that will be set in antebellum South. Think "Grey's Anatomy" + "Roots." It will star Isaiah Washington as a gay slave (the man needs to do some damage control).

Okay, okay. Cool your jets. I'm hoping to pitch this to UPN-- a.k.a "Under-Paid Negroes,"* the network that brought us such great black sitcoms as "Half and Half," and "Homeboys in Outerspace."

I will give you a brief excerpt from the shooting script. Picture this:

EXT. Plantation Field. Day.
RUFUS, A young black teen picks cotton in the hot southern sun. He furtively looks around. He sees the MASTER, an attractive young White man (ideally played by Shia Lebouf) looking off in the opposite direction. He turns to his sister DELILAH, a younger black girl, who is picking nearby.

RUFUS
Delilah, keep a look out. Watch Massa.

DELILAH
Rufus, don't you get us in trouble. Celie's still sore from the last whoopin'!

RUFUS
I just need to take a peek.

Delilah rolls her eyes, but says nothing. She looks over at the MASTER. Rufus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a copy of The Devil Wears Prada. HE READS A PAGE!!!!

Meanwhile, MASTER/Shia Lebouf catches Delilah's eye. She turns away, then turns quickly back. He gives a small smile. Her cousin, CELIE, who is on the other side of her, chuckles as he saunters towards them.

CELIE
Hmmmm---mmmh. Massa McDreamy comin' over here!

DELILAH
Shut up, Celie!
(to Rufus)
Put that away boy, before you get yo' butt beat!

MASTER McDREAMY/SHIA LEBOUF reaches Delilah. He approaches her closely. Sketchily. She shrinks in. A slight girl (obviously underfed cause she's a SLAVE), she is pubescent and has a crush. This is not the first time he has approached her.

MASTER/SHIA LEBOUF
Sure is hot out here. Ain't it, Delilah?

DELILAH
Sho' is.
(pause. unsure. she takes a breath)
You... um. You got some water?

MASTER
(loudly, putting on a show)
How dare you ask me for water!
(he moves to strike her and she flinches. He stops himself and whispers in her ear)
Sorry, I left my nalgene in the wagon. I'll come by your quarters after supper.
(His eye catches Rufus, who is furtively reading his book)
What you got there, Rufus?

Rufus stuffs the book into his pocket.

RUFUS
Oh, nothing, Massa.

So that's just an excerpt people. What will happen next? Will Rufus's attempt at literacy be discovered? How long can Delilah and McDreamy's affair last? I think you know the world needs to see the next installment of "I Don't Cotton To It." This fall. On Under-Paid Negroes.

The tagline? SLAVES: THE MOST UNDERPAID OF ALL.


(Shia is clearly looking over his property, and Isaiah is saying, "Shh. Don't use the 'F' word.")


* (UPN recently changed its name to "My9," which is clearly indicative of the desperate need of negroes to have OWNERSHIP after being OWNED!!!!)

Ode to Harry Potter

Okay, I know Harry Potter mania is sweeping the nation right now, with book 7 and the movie. But I deserve to add my three rupees to the Potter discourses. It's my 40 acres.

I heart Harry Potter. I swoon over every second of his milky goodness. He defies all laws of puberty and Britishness, with his clear skin and gleaming teeth.

Yeah, I saw the movie last night. Or, as one friend put it-- the movie and the gun show! Harry has got more definition than a dictionary, and I want to read him forwards and back!

Look, I know he's "underage." I know he "lives in another time zone." I know he "doesn't know I exist." But if I let that kind of negative thinking get in my way, I'd never have hopped on the underground railroad to freedom.

As a free slave, I have learned to read and write. And I will use Harry's native tongue-- the British sonnet (and iambic pentameter)-- to express my love. I think both you and Harry will agree that we are meant to be.

Harry Potter Book 8: Harry and the Legend of Interracial Love

Let me in your heart and I'll take care of your magical creature.
I promise I'll be gentle and show more respect than that house elf Kreacher.
Let me ride your firebolt , I'm nimble like a Nimbus two thousand,
I can make your body jolt; like Lupin on a full moon, you'll be howlin'!
Your owl may be named Hedwig, but you've got more than an angry inch
I bet it's more like nine and three-quarters after I give it a little bit of a pinch.
Now I should say something about how I'm a muggle
Cause that would allow me to rhyme with 'snuggle'
But I think we both know I'm more clever than that
And I want to be on your head longer than the Sorting Hat.
In America, loving you makes me a pedophile
Cause you're still quite pubescent.
But I know I can make it worth your while
Besides, I hear in England 16 is the age of consent.


Do you see his pectorals through his t-shirt? I bought it for him at Tween Gap . I thought it was really sweet of him to wear it as I saw him off on the Hogwart's Express. He was really upset that we'd be apart for so long, so he had that "scary/nauseous-oh-my-god-it's-You-Know-Who" look on his face.