Some People Really Don't Like Spam

One of my duties at work (not for much longer, though!) is checking the general email address and replying or forwarding all questions from artists, readers, and general randoms. As many of you already know, most artists are weird and crazy—and turn down no chance to share their “quirkiness” and “creativity.” Take, for instance, the following auto-replies I received from emails about our online survey:

Subject: Yahoo! Auto Response
Message:

I'm in LA visiting Lindsay.Thank goodness for AirTran's Crazy 8's sale on August 8!! Be back September 6. –Shelby

Okay, I need to know why this person would put so much extra information in their auto-response. Who is Lindsay? Am I supposed to care? Is it Lindsay Lohan? If Shelby is indeed visiting drunky/cracky/currently gay starlet Li-Lo, then I need way more details.

Oh, and is it just me, or does the second sentence read like some sort of sponsored content? Do you think AirTran makes you plug them in all emails until you’ve returned from your flight?

Subject: Re: Art Magazine’s Survey.
Message:
September 5th is my birthday, so wish me luck.


The artist wrote this because part of our incentive is a free subscription; winners for this freebie will be announced September 5.

Okay, I know, this isn’t an auto-reply, but isn’t it strange? Does she expect me to reply to this? Do I have to send her a birthday e-card now?


Here’s my absolute favorite:

Subject: This email address has been closed due to spam.
Message:

Regarding your message, RE: Your email requires verification Art Mag’s Mail:



You are trying to reach an email address which is no longer in use due to the deluge of spam I experienced a few years ago.



If you are a friend who is trying to reach me, check your email messages. I probably sent you a message giving you my new email address. If I didn't, type first and last name with a period separating the two. Then add @gmail.com to the end and your message should reach me. If not, give me a call.



If you are a business associate trying to reach me, read the above. I am very sorry for the inconvenience.



If you are a spammer: Bully for you. Your unsolicited garbage overran my email address and caused me all sorts of problems. You now have a private bungalow reserved in the very deepest darkest corner of hell.




OH MY GOD. THIS CHICK IS PISSED. WHAT DO YOU THINK THE “ALL SORTS OF PROBLEMS” WERE??????

The Beginning of Hump Day

As you know, I don’t believe in working many hours in a day. That is because what I have is a job, not a career—I think you know the difference. For those who are confused, let me break it down:

A career is something in which you learn, grow, and advance. It is a series of helpful stepping stones in which you learn valuable skills and pursue a passion.

A job is something which allows you to satisfy your addictions.

I, my friends, have a job. And with having given my one-month notice on Monday, I have a job now more than ever. This means constant g-chatting.

Today’s first chat somehow devolved into randomness a lot faster than normal. However, my craziness is your joy. Read on.

me: i loved andrew dice clay's outfits
and his cameo in Pretty in Pink
K-Dub: oh i love that cameo
me: that movie is my life
i felt as though i was both Andy AND duckie
K-Dub: haha
me: katie, i think duckie started my love of nerdy awkwards
i had the BIGGEST CRUSH on john cryer!
BIGGEST
K-Dub: ahhhh NO
me: but now, when I see him on 2 1/2 men
he doesn't do it for me
i thought he was a gay
but he got married last year to a blonde chick!
but yes, that was the beginning for me
K-Dub: jon!!!! why do you do this???
me: 1986. the beginning of jon cryer and me
and me and awkwards
K-Dub: that must have been it
now i must pinpoint my the origins of my beef craving*
me: hahahahhaa
think back
who was your favorite MMC character?
did you really love AC slater on SBTB?
K-Dub: i did not love AC
hmm
oh!
my first crush was harry connick jr. in memphis belle
not so much on the beef
me: HAHAHAHA
NO WAY
K-Dub: totes
i lurrrved him
as like a 7 year old
oh also
this is way creepy
i had this disney sing a long tape
and harry connick jr. and an animated baloo from the jungle book sang "The Bear Necessities" together
and i was OBSESSED
i was seriously like 7 years old
and i loved him
and watched that shit all the time
i also watched a ton of raiders of the lost arc, so maybe harrison beef?
then i had funny feelings for chris odonnell in the robin suit
me: HAHAHAHHA
oh my god
you are hilarious
bear necessities!
what a great jam
i was all about Disney sing along songs
follow the bouncing ball!
K-Dub: YES
me: (hmm...that could explain my penchant for testicles)
K-Dub: ahahaha
i feel like maybe bear necessities may take on erotic properties for me now
me: hahahhaa
i heart harry connick jr
he has made many bad films great
K-Dub: oh god
wasnt he in some sandy bullock film?
me: YES
HOPE FLOATS
and my hope FLOATED


*by "beef craving," K-Dub is referring to her love for beefy buff dudes with little to no signs of a neck.

Erase. Replace. Embrace new PLACE

That's a slight amendment to my normal motto: Erase. Replace. Embrace new face! You know how Sojo likes to bounce back when the men have done her wrong!

Today I gave the massa notice that I was leaving the plantation--yay!! I was really nervous to break the news, then I rememebr that laying it out there would be a hell of a lot better than running away and risk getting my feet cut off (remember ROOTS).

I was in a place of empowerment, as this action came on the heels of me officially dumping the kiwi.

Yes, readers, even after he was allegedly done, I went back into his foreign arms--partially out of boredom, and partially because he promised to feed me dinner yet again (you know how I hate to turn down a free meal--it's my weakness). However, it just wasn't working for me. I mean, I know I'm leaving and I'm not looking for a baby daddy, but at the very least I should be able to find someone who will call me up regularly and turn me out!!

"Well, duh, Sojourner," you may be thinking. "You're a strong black woman with a boobs so nice that your friend's fiancee calls you 'Count Rack-ula'--you should want for nothing in the bedroom."

Yes, you are right. But guys, I have a confession. I know that I may appear to be a strong black woman (you know, whose truth you can't handle), but I can be quite the delicate lamb with terrible taste in men. Often, I'll just let a relationship go on, too afraid to end it for whatever ridiculous reason. But, in anticipation of my upcoming voyage, I am turning over a new leaf (listening to India.Aire's "Strength, Courage, & Wisdom" helps), and no longer settling for half-assed d-bags simply because I'm bored or they think I've got nice boobies.

I believe when I called the kiwi my exact words were, "Let's stop this foolishness."

Y'all, I am a 47-year-old divorcee and I don't have time for this ish (me and Danny Glover are both getting too old for this shit)! I realized things had gotten too intense when my homegirl who is studying for the GREs used Sojourner's truths to help her learn some complicated mathematics. For example:

1. If the blacktress has 5 possible guys to date, how many different possible combinations are there for going out with different people on Friday and Satuday night?

2. If each of her dates send her an average of 5 inappropriate text messages per day, plus some other random dude sends 5 messages every 3 days, how many days until her inbox is full (assuming it holds 50 messages)?

3. If Sojourner has 6 slutty tops, 4 pairs of pants and 3 skirts to choose from, how many possible bombshell outfits can she construct?

4. Sojo starts in Harlem and travels 5.8 miles south to Union Sqare, then walks 1 mile east and .2 miles south to the bourgie pig. How far is she from home at the end of the night?

5. If Sojourner has $20 and she takes a cab home which charges a flat fee of $2.50 plus $0.40 per 1/5 mile, will she have enough money to pay for a 15% tip and a $2.00 slice of pizza?

6. If it takes 10 bonza blokes to drink a keg of beer in 4 hours, how long will it take 20 of them to drink 6 kegs?*

I mean, you know my madness has gotten too public when it's become engrained in the the minds of others and is helping them solve for 'y'. (you know, as is "Y God, Y?!")


Well, luckily, I can turn my attention to other good things happening in the world, such as JESSE McCARTNEY'S REMIX OF T-PAIN'S 'BUY YOU A DRANK'!!!
I kid you not.

I think we all know how I feel about the song 'buy you a drank' and its creator, T-Pain. And I think we all know even more how I feel about a tall glass of milk. Well, when you put the two together, you get a drank that's so delicious and intoxicating, I'm still hungover today at work. Check this out, y'all.



No, you're not dreaming.
You're welcome



*For those of you who are dying to know (and want to test your math skills), the answers are below:

1. 20
2. 5 days
3. 42
4. approximately 6.1 miles
5. yes, unless there is wait time
6. 12 hours

Mount Isa, Here I Come!!

I think one of my favorite things about gmail is that it’s always thinking. I first noticed this when I was using one of those cool, hip, “emoticons” in a gchat a year or so ago. I wanted to let my gal pal know I was smiling, so I typed a semicolon and open parenthesis. Instantly, it rotated to form a knowing smile.

Gmail is watching.

I also love that it reads your emails and puts ads and article links in the margins that relate to key words in the text. All my talk of Australia has provided me with several cheap travel websites, as well as info on the AU consulate. But yesterday, I got the best tip-off from Gangsta Mail ever.

“Outback Mayor Seeks ‘ugly duckling’ Women”

In a remote mining town called Mount Isa, men outnumber women 5 to 1. In a recent interview with a local paper, town mayor John Molony urged women to move there and help end the shortage. I think my favorite quote of his is:

"Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness," Molony told the Townsville Bulletin newspaper last week.

"Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits. Really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan," Molony said.

HAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, Molony, you’re hilarious!!! I love the idea that it’s somehow crazy that a “lass who is not so attractive” could still have a “wide smile on her face”—as though, being less than a supermodel, she should know nothing of happiness. I also think he’s trying to point out that what she’s so happy about is that when she goes into the pub, she’s got her pick of 10 strapping coal-mining dudes, all offering her a bottle of Toohey’s and some of their good sperm.

Of course, people in Oz are now outraged, with some even calling that the mayor resign.

The Ozzie listservs are all a-buzz, and I've been reading the comments to get a sense of my future people. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorites:

I've travelled all over Australia and all over the World, and I've always believed that Mt Isa has a really high percentage of Real Beauties. Some same Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder , I've also heard lately that Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beer Holder. It is a small town and a lot of loving realationships* commence in our pubs and clubs.

Holla at “beauty in the eye of the BEER holder”!! I’ve been saying that for years, and it’s about damn time someone agreed with me.
Yes, the mayor is offensive and cracked out. Yes, he should probably not be allowed to speak in public for a long time. Yes, he is offensive to women.

But I can’t help but thinking that any place where loving relationships commence in pubs and clubs is where I need to be. And any town that’s calling for the “ugly ducklings” is in desperate need of a blacktress.

I am so excited to blow this popstand!!! I was going to be a good employee and give my massa 1-month’s notice (and also free myself from having to pretend like I care for the remainder of my days), but I don’t think I can do that and still holla at my vacay time. But this means that for two more weeks, I will have to smile and nod and “put in effort” (lame). But, if I can make my way to freedom and become one of the most inspiring black women of all time, I can certainly stick it out on this plantation a few weeks longer.

I’ve been reading so many books on the land down under (you know, where the women glow and men plunder) so that I can master the foreign land quickly upon arrival. The slanguage is the best part—Aussies say the darndest things!! Thanks to Deets for the great book “Live and Work in Australia,” which has everything I’ll ever need to know. Some Aussie gems include:

apples: meaning, OK, as in “She’ll be apples, mate”
flash as a rat with a gold tooth: overdone, overdressed. [I really hope people actually use this phrase.]
frosty, tinny, neck oil, singing syrup, etc.: beer. [I love the use of ‘etc,’ as though there is a natural sequence of phrases that would come after these to describe the frothy fermented goodness of beer]
wouldn’t do it to a Jap on ANZAC Day: wouldn’t do it to your worst enemy under dire circumstances. A reference to the Japanese enemy during WWII, ANZAC Day is a national holiday to commemorate the contribution of Australian war veterans to various campaigns.

They are so colorful in their lingo, and abbreviate almost everything. Seeing as I can’t stop saying “totes” and “obvi,” I think I’ll be apples down there (see how I incorporated my new vocab so flawlessly?).




*note his misspelling here. I actually think it’s a CORRECT spelling of what we’re all looking for: a REALationship—none of this half-assed, late-night-texting crap. Man up, commit to loving me for eternity, and let's get this going!

Cop and a Blacktress

So, as you know, I work on a plantation--a plantation of writing, crazy artists, and writing about crazy artists. I really enjoy getting know the artists and their process, as most of them are very friendly to the person writing a feature-length article on them. My favorite artist thus far has to be, hands down, the man I like to call "The Detective"--mainly because that is his occupation. Based in the Pacific Northwest, he's a man of the law who draws composite sketches of criminals based on witnesses accounts. When he's not doing that, he's doing high-class commissioned portraits. He is, in short, bad ass and artistic-- and cool as ice.

The thing I like most about him is that we've sort of developed a rapport that has lasted long after his article was published. He sends the funniest emails ever, and I thought it was behoovy of me to share them with you, my gentle readers.

I knew from our first interview that The Detective and I would get along. He was already a reader of our magazine, so he was all flattered by the idea of being interviewed. He was really long-whinded (which I love when writing an article, because it means I'll never have a shortage of quotes), and he laughed at all my jokes. Before we'd even spoken, he'd done a little research on me, reading my past articles to see if I had the chops. I immediately told him, "Detective, I'll bring nothing but my A-game with this article--primarily because you could have me killed and make it look like an accident."

We had a good long laugh at that one, and we only calmed down once he said, between chuckles, "Yes, that's true."

So, needless to say, I got down to business--but there was also some pleasure.

The Detective told me he'd never been to NYC, and I told him all about our fast-paced lifestyle. I also explained that I could never live anywhere else, because I hate nature. He couldn't believe it. After that convo, he sent me the following email:

Sojo,

Nice talking to you today. I'm still laughing. I've never met anyone who doesn't like nature. Just for you, I'm attaching the photo collages I sent out with our last Christmas card. You're going to see a lot of my family, but what I really want you to see is the number of photos taken outside--in the woods, trails on the sides of mountains, on the beach, in parks, in kayaks on the water, there's even a picture under the water, etc. Pay special attention to the photo of my whole family on the beach building an enormous sand castle. You want to talk dirt... Okay, it's sand, but pretty much the same thing. I love it outside. Maybe I should write an article about you. In Seattle, you'd be the fascinating one! Like talking to an alien.* "Yes that's right. She doesn't like nature!"

Let me know if you have any more questions--I will have more time this weekend, but right now I have to go to bed because I have to get up at 0230 to go serve a warrant. This could be a wild one--house full of armed gang members involved in an assortment of crimes. It's not as bad as it sounds--we're sending in the SWAT team first. - D

Please note that this last paragraph has not been doctored in any way. The Detective is hard core. Note the use of military time when he tells me what time he has to wake up. Also note how chill he is: "it's not as bad as it sounds--we're sending in the SWAT team first." Oh, okay detective--and when you're done, you'll all have some donuts and coffee and go make love to your wives.

I love the detective. In my head, he and I could be a dynamic duo, if not the basis of a TV movie. He'd be solving gritty crimes by day, and by night he would come home and draw his victims. Only with the help of Sojourner would he be able to unlock the truth and crack the case. I think it'd be something like this:

I'm the little black boy and he's Burt Reynolds.

The detective and I still talk, and he sends me emails to let me know how things are going. Sometimes he asks for favors, like advanced or discount copies, and because of our bond--and his power (see above re: killing me and making it look like an accident)--I often give in. He's always really nice, but he makes sure I never forget who I'm talking to. Take, for example, this short gem he sent a few days ago:

Sojo,

I've been busy all morning arresting a guy--got a full confession though. You find anyone to help transfer that file?
I'll be back in an hour--got to go meet a victim.
-D

Was he telling me I only had an hour to get him the file or I'd be sleeping with the fishes? Was he mentioning a "victim" just to give me the willies? I didn't even give him time to explain--that file was in his inbox in 12 minutes.


*[The Detective thinks I'm from another planet simply because I said to him, "I don't get why anyone would want to go outside and pretend to be poor. I don't want 'the stars as my blanket'-- I want a blanket as my blanket!!"
I don't get what's so crazy about that.
Oh, and fyi-- one of his family photos showed his son with a black gf--holla at interracial love!]

Forget Confucius—Blacktress Says…

So, I’m done with the Kiwi. After not calling me for 4 days—when he specifically said he would—I just lost interest. I mean, I don’t ask for much, but at the very least, do what you say you’re going to do, you know? Or, if you can’t do it, at least have a good reason. His excuse for not calling me: “I got really wasted all weekend and couldn’t call.”

Really? Really? That’s the best you got? Honey, in those kinds of situations, lie to me. tell me you lost a limb and needed to get it reattached before you could see me. Tell me you’ve been smoking too much and they had to amputate your fingers (like the lady in the NYC Subway ad about quitting smoking) and you couldn’t text me. Come up with some good shit!

When he finally resurfaced, he promised to make it up to me by cooking me dinner at his place. Never one to turn down a free meal (Mama didn’t raise no fool!), I went over there Monday night—and I think I might find his roommate more interesting than him.

Not a good sign.

When recounting a story about one of his coworkers (who he referred to as his “little black brother”), the Kiwi couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He’s trying to figure it out, and he looks at me and goes, “What’s a black name that begins with a ‘J’?”

Sweet god in heaven, am I on candid camera?

Normally, I can shake off foreign ignorance, but when the person puts their p in my v, my tolerance becomes much lower. I looked at him and said, “Um…Jay-Z?”

Anyway, after a decent dinner (made more delicious by the fact that I didn’t have to cook it or clean up afterwards), we chatted a little bit—or, rather, I listened as he talked. After a lackluster makeout session, I headed home. As I rode the bus (doing my part to help the environment and my wallet), I realized that the Kiwi may be a lighthearted distraction, and even though he’s quick to feed me a meal, he’s not actually bringing anything to the blacktress’ potluck.

Let me explain.

Sojourner has a theory--a philosophy, if you will (will you?). I first developed it a couple of years ago when I former female friend of mine started dating one of my exes who’d hurt me real bad. As I thought about how to handle the situation, I looked back on our friendship up until that point. Over the 4 years I’d known her, she’d slept with one of my crushes, and, when I offered to take her home one night when she was drunk-crying (you know, the worse kind of tears), she put her head in my lap and PUKED ON ME.
We were on minute 7 of a 45-minute car ride.

As I sat in her vomit that night, I knew that this was not someone who was good for me. It wasn't until later that I was able to sort out my feelings.

See, the thing is, life is like a potluck. And the question is: What do you bring to the table in the potluck of my life???

Think about it:

You have a gathering of friends, and tell each one to bring a little something—and what they bring to the table is very telling.

First off, you’ve got the friends who roll up with a main dish—maybe some pasta with pesto, or a hearty salad—maybe even a meat dish. Those are the people you can count on. They’re bringing some sustenance to your table, and by extension, your life.

YUMMERS!!! This kinda goodness comes from a bestie, who knows that you need to be fed--both emotionally and physically.

Then, you’ve got the people who roll up with a couple bottles of red wine—I like them. They may not be the ones you go to when the chips are down, but when you want to know where the party is, they’ve got it. And that, my friends, is vital.

Wine-bringers are the folks who will tell you to go up and talk to that hot guy who is eye-fucking the shit out of you, and if he doesn’t holla back, they’ll buy you a shot. God bless ‘em.


Then, there are the folks who come by with some sort of Entenmann’s cake they clearly got at Duane Reade on the way to your house. I mean, I appreciate the effort, but that’s a little lackluster. It’s like, they forget they had a place to be and at the last minute ducked in to the place near the atm; they know they should bring something, but it’s not really what anyone wants to eat—and it’s full of trans fat, which will kill you.

NOT DELICIOUS. THAT ICING HAS BEEN ON THERE SINCE 1997!

I’ll still take an Entenmann’s cake person in, cause at least they tried, but they won’t be on the permanent party list, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).


Then, you have, like, the people who bring a half-empty bottle of Pepsi that’s going flat and some hummus dip. Those two things don’t even go together! It’s like they were cleaning out their fridge and thought you’d like the leftovers! These are the kinds of friends that dump all over you, give you their crap.
NOT OKAY.

I thought an image of The Hoff humping pepsi would really get my point across. If this image isn't wrong, I don't know what is.

Then, you have the bitches who have the nerve to roll up to your place empty-handed, LATE, and then when they leave they take a plate!!!

[No image on the interweb can describe this horror and disrespect. You will have to imagine it for yourself]

OH HELL TO THE NO!!

You know the ones I’m talking about. The bloodsuckers. The ones who will date your ex and then ask you to tell them it’s okay. It ain’t okay!! That’s not cool!!

I think the Kiwi would fall into the Entenmann’s category. He tries, and brings a little something, but it’s not quite rounding out the meal or bringing a new and exciting flavor, you know? I’ve decided from now on, people need to be coming with some main dishes or wine!! Do not come late and take a plate from my potluck!!

I think I should have majored in Philosophy.

Think About It...

I have a lot to share about this past weekend, but my ability to engage in fun bloggery is hampered by the fact that, in addition to meeting randoms and wishing I was 50 years old, the black community--no, not just the black community, but the WORLD--has lost two great blacktors.

On Saturday morning, blacktor/comedian Bernie Mac died of pneumonia.

This morning (Sunday), blacktor/songwriter/singer Isaac Hayes was pronounced dead at a hospital in Memphis.

"Sojourner, shut yo' mouth!" you may say with disbelief.
"I'm just talking about Isaac Hayes and Bernie Mac," would be my response. (You know, in the style of the song)

Yes, Isaac Hayes-- best known for the theme song to Shaft, and later as Chef on South Park-- was only 65 years young.

Black visionaries are dropping like flies.

OMG, this just in (from three days ago): blacktor Morgan Freeman (freeman)was in a car accident on August 4. Luckily, he's doing okay after surgery on his arm. I knew Morgan would pull through--the man has a bucket list--you can't kill him!

What is happening to these men? Do you think THE MAN (you know the one I mean) is trying to send Barack a message? He's getting too big for his black britches, and they have to let him know they could end him?

Oh, Sojourner and her conspiracy theories.

But it seems I'm not alone. Check out this piece of spam that came to my work email this morning:

Yesterday, it was Bernie Mac. Today it was Isaac Hayes. Could Samuel Jackson be next?

Daryl Toor, president of Attention!, an Atlanta based publicity firm, a former music reviewer and record company executive notes:

"This photograph, taken from Isaac Hayes' official site at http://www.isaachayes.com/myframes.html is as eerie as the time I read a newspaper obituary on its own obituary writer…."

D. Toor
CEO & Chief Awareness Officer
dtoor@attentiongroup.com


Daryl Toor is searching for the TRUTH!

But, seriously-- think about it... Here's some help from Flight of the Conchords. They know what's up.

New Future Baby Daddy

No, not the kiwi. But the kiwi did bring this man into my life. Let me explain:

Tuesday night’s dinner started off a bit rocky. I arrived at 8:15—fifteen minutes late—only to find the kiwi had just started cooking and the other two guests hadn’t even arrived. (Luckily, I’d inhaled a slice of pizza after work, foreseeing this possible delay.) I was sort of nervous and fidgety, wondering what he’d told his friends about me and if they’d be friendly and welcoming. Could they handle Sojourner’s truth? I’d already hung out with his roommate a few times—a scrawny, precious Caucasian who’s down with the hip hop music and getting his drank on—so that was one less person to worry about. But there was a … couple.

Couples are always hard—you have to win over both of them, but approach them in totally different ways. The thing about this pair is that they weren’t particularly interested in getting to know me, and I’m not one to force my truth onto another.* Normally, if I’m with a group of friends and a new person comes into our midst, I pepper them with questions, not only to figure out if they’re a Commie spy, but to make them feel like they are worth getting to know, and by extension, more at ease. These two peeps—a 21-year-old Cali chick and her 26-year-old Aussie bf—initially reacted to me as though I were a piece of furniture … or the cleaning lady. The kiwi was in the kitchen slicing and dicing away (SO hot!), and his roommate, who I thought would support me, just sat on the couch watching humorous internet videos. So I did what any normal, non-awkward person would do during an intimate dinner party.

I drank red wine and read the newspaper.

Now, anyone who knows me would be shocked to hear of the blacktress exhibiting such autistic behavior. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I was tired and didn’t really feel like trying to impress anyone. I figured it’d happen organically (you know, like Whole Foods), and if I tried to sweet-talk his friends, the kiwi would think I was really into him or something—and we can’t get his panties in a twist. So, I just drank my 3-buck Chuck** and kicked it old school.

When the couple wasn’t all up in each other’s grill (dude was fucking flossing her molars with his tongue), I decided I’d woo the woman first. Only 6 months in NYC, she was blonde, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed, and relatively easy to talk to. I followed the three-step rule for making lady friends (see below), and soon she was putty in my hands. I used my impending move to Australia to woo the guy and get him to tell me all the hot spots (he warned me that even though I’d probably be a cool bartender, Aussies don’t really tip, so I might want to change my career plan).

After a lovely dinner of homemade, non-greasy, chicken fried rice (look at my kiwi, getting ethnic in the kitchen!), we continued to drink and chat.

And that’s when he appeared to me.

Jon Lajoie.

Future baby daddy.

He’s a Canadian comedian/musician who writes hilarious songs that can be seen on Funny or Die. Why I’d never heard of him, I don’t know. Why he isn’t in my bed right now baffles me even more.

His song, “Everyday Normal Guy” is basically a magnum opus written about the men I love. Check it out:

See more Jon Lajoie videos at Funny or Die

How can you not love this man?! He is a credit to his (Canadian) race. I think my favorite line is:

“I’m a pretty shy person and I’m average looking … I get nervous in social situations, muthaf*&!%@#”
Lord knows I love an awkward with anger management issues.

No, wait, I think my favorite line is: “And I like the show Grey’s Anatomy, mutha*&!%@#”

I bet he cried over Izzy and Denny, too.



* that’s a bold-faced lie, but I was out of my element!

** Trader Joe’s Wine Shop has a $3 bottle of wine that was made with the budget blacktress in mind.

THREE-STEP RULE FOR MAKING LADY FRIENDS
1. Compliment female on article of clothing or jewelry (you know, like Regina George in 'Mean Girls'--but don't make it a lie).
2. Make a funny-but-harmless joke about something innocuous.
3. Ask her about three questions about herself—if part of a couple, “how did you two meet?” always works.

Textual Seduction

So, the kiwi invited me over to his place for dinner tonight. It’ll be him and “a few friends.” I’m slightly nervous and slightly not really looking forward to it. I’m feeling sorta lukewarm towards this foreign man—and it’s not even a protectionist measure because I’m leaving soon. He’s really nice, friendly, straightforward, and relaxed, but I worry he may be a bit dim. Am I a bad person?
Yes, yes I am.

He kinda reminds me of a puppy--a scrappy, hyperactive golden retriever. You know how it is:
The cute puppy you just got from the pound is a bundle of joy, bounding all over the house. One day, after playing in the muddy woods, he’s so excited to see his new master that he jumps all over you, leaving muddy paw prints all over your favorite jeans.
“Bad, bad, puppy!” you say to him sternly.
He just pants and wags his (large) tail.
You can’t help but grin at his puppy excitement, but you’re still kinda pissed that he got carried away—not to mention that time he crapped on the carpet.

Do you get the analogy?

Anyway, I can’t really complain about the kiwi. The last thing I need is stress, and that’s the last thing he can bring to the table. Besides, I like being involved—it keeps me off the single streets and out of trouble. For real, y’all. For an example of what kind of shenanigans I get into when I’m on the market, check out the following text messages I’ve received from a certain “suitor.”

He is a 29-year-old PhD student at a prestigious New York university—New York University, to be exact. I point this out because these credentials imply that he’s a grown-ass man with more than ½ a brain.
Alas, I may be wrong.

After one date three weeks ago where we had a couple of drinks and he kept asking me to come over to his house (to which I said, “homeslice, slow down! Does my vag have an expiration date?!”), he has been blowing up my phone with pathetic attempts at textual seduction (I heart Snoop Dogg*). For example:

Received 07/19/2008, 7:05 pm: so are you comin over to be crapped on or what?
(my complete response: “No.”)

Received 7/19/2008, 7:15 pm: what about for some sex?

Seriously, these are real text messages I have received from an educated adult male pursuing an advanced degree.

Just when I thought the madness was over, I got this one over the weekend:

Received 08/02/2008, 6:04 pm: is there a reason i haven’t fingered u yet?

I KID YOU NOT.

Um, what should I have said-- "because you are an insane man lacking in propriety and respect, and possibly a sexual predator" ?

I didn’t even respond. I don’t even know how to. I feel like he is beyond reason, completely vulgar, and possibly autistic (at the very least, he’s got Aspberger’s).

But, I have found a silver lining:
Normally, in such circumstances, the blacktress would lament her fate, wondering “Why God, Why?!” would such a terrible person seek her out. She’d blame herself for somehow “making” this PhD student this way.

Not anymore.

As I fortify myself for my international journey, I realize that, at 29 years old, this dude’s got about 28 years, 8 months, and 14 days worth of issues that were there before I cropped up on the scene. There is no way that my dazzling conversation, rapier wit, and pretty green dress got him so beside himself that the only way he could express his interest was through crazy texts.

He is, in summation a HOT ASS MESS.

And that is certainly one thing the sweet, hyperactive kiwi is NOT. He may not believe in spelling words completely or properly via text, but everything he has to say is in good clean fun. He invites me to meals that he will prepare in the presence of other people, proving that he has both social and culinary skills. He is also keeping me off the single streets of this cray cray city, where apparently PhDs are still Playa-hating Degrees!


* if you have not seen the music video or heard the song on which my clever title is based, please click here.
If a man came at me with Snoop's level of mojo, I'd probably be hearing the pitter patter of little feet by now.

Pearls of Gay Wisdom/The Importance of Gchat

Last week, I was gchatting on the plantation with one of my good friends, who shall remain nameless. For the purpose of today’s post, let’s just call him the ELITE GAY VISIONARY. He’s a fine-ass intellectual homosexual (the best kind), and from the shores of San Francisco or Miami, he’s ready and willing to offer his advice to all a blacktress' romantic queries. Here’s an excerpt from one of our recent chats. I think the words of wisdom here are useful for all of us.

me: miguelito
i have date #2 with the new zealander tomorrow
i mean, TONIGHT
Elite Gay Visionary: eek!
me: we've already done the dirty*
how do you act on a "date" when you've already done the dirty?
EGV: well
i only go on dates with people i want to do the dirty with again
so you can act like you want it again, but pending any new information
me: hahaha
EGV: the way i judge too is i count the number of drinks before i want to do it
me: hahah, what do you mean?
EGV: okay
with HOT guys
i want to do it before i drink
with good looking guys it takes 1 drink
with okay guys 2 drinks
with ick guys 3 drinks
i only date the first 2
if it takes 2 drinks i'm over it
well except for that night because i've already had the 2nd drink
so it's too late by then
but that will be the last time
me: you know this is going on my blog, right?!
EGV: hahaha
does my SLUTINESS UPSET you?
me: hahaha, i love it
it's BRILLZ
this is going to be called "reasons why gays should be allowed to adopt"
i mean, you make sense
EGV: and we'll only adopt children if we want to before the 2nd drink
me: exactly


*yes, we did the dirty. honey, time is of the essence--all bets are OFF!!

Warning: These Images May Not Be Suitable For Children

So, one of my lovely duties on the plantation is sorting the mail—as you can guess, this is why I often get first dibs on all the great letters from cray cray artists. Today, I got the usual announcements for shows, press invites to openings, and random magazines. One such mag is called Arts & Activities, and contains all sorts of fun craft ideas for those who teach youngsters. The subscription was for a former employee, so I’m not even bothering to renew, but we just can’t seem to get off their mailing list.

What I wouldn’t give to get off this mailing list.

Today, instead of a magazine or renewal notice, they sent a piece of advertising so terrifying that it can only be described as pure evil. Look:



Why would a magazine about art projects for youngsters have such a hideous monster in its advertising? What kind of response do they expect to get from me by showing me the drawings of some twisted youngster who most likely sees dead people? This is why we have to stop "nurturing children's creativity"--they are dangerous, warped, and deadly.


So, what do you expect to come after the ellipsis when you flip over the card?

a. …For the sweet silence death brings.

b. …Or the grim reaper will come for you.

c. …To let the glue dry on your papier mache watermelon.

d. All of the above

e. BOO!!

Ha, I tricked you!! The correct answer is:

...to show off your products this fall!!!

Um....
W
T
F
?
!

Something to Blog About

So, I don’t know what’s particularly interesting nowadays, so here’s a look at the past week’s highlights—let me know which you’d like to know more about, dear readers.

1. The blacktress is officially booked on Quantas flight 740, departing San Francisco on October 11, 2008. I arrive in Sydney on October 13*-- holla!!! Eli Reed and other Aussie friends: I expect you to have 12 rugged men and 7 koalas waiting for me.

2. Tonight is date #2 with a hottie from NEW ZEALAND!!!
I mean, that’s practically like Australia (don’t tell him I said that—there’s apparently beef between the two countries), so it’s great preparation for the big trip. It also allows me to pretend like I'm dating Jemaine from "Flight of the Conchords" (let me look at my list....living the dream? CHECK! hot accent? double-check! love for a blacktress? mutha-CHECKIN' yes!)

He has even asked me to be his “summer girlfriend”—yes, please!! Best to go out with a bang, I always say!

3. This morning, I was on the Underground Railroad heading in the wrong direction (to the plantation), when a petite pregnant lady got on the train. Being NYC at rush hour, of course there were no seats left. She quietly stood and grabbed the pole, and I looked around momentarily. Not a single man, woman, or child got up. I got the woman’s attention and offered her my seat. She immediately accepted and I stood up over the young, able-bodied hipster guy who I had been sitting next to. He looked momentarily sheepish, then went back to reading his book on social theory.

I was so annoyed by this turn of events. Well, yes, I would have liked to sit, but I was more put off by the fact that I, a young blacktress, was the only person who offered to give this clearly-8-months-pregnant woman a seat on the train. She’s holding life in womb, for Christ’s sake! I can barely stand up in a pair of heels, so lord knows the day I accidentally get knocked up, I’m gonna need to take a knee every ten seconds!! And, on top of that, I noticed that when she sat down she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring—is she a single mom, struggling with the worry of how to raise this incoming fetus on her own?! My lord, if I had that weighing on my shoulders in addition to the baby weighing on my torso, I would probably be in a Jazzy Electric Wheelchair, much like this one:

It’s actually called a “Jazzy.”

The refusal of any man to get up off his ass and give her a seat reminded me of the words of a great poet—Nelly Furtado—in her hit opus “Promiscuous”:

“Roses are red / some diamonds are blue / chivalry is dead / but you’re still kinda cute.”

I mean, if that ain’t the gospel truth, I don’t know what is. If it was 1956, everyone with a Y chromosome would have gotten up when that woman came on the train, and some probably would have removed their bowler hats. Alas, those days of propriety are gone.

I guess I shouldn’t be so upset, though—if the old days were still around, I’d be sitting at the back of the bus.



*What happens to me for a whole day???? It’s like I’m in some transcontinental vortex where I cease to exist…..I smell a Sci-Fi channel original motion picture!

Total Request BLOG

I was at a loss of what to blog about the last couple of days, until I received the following letter/g-chat message from a loyal reader. I thought that in helping her, I could post my response and help countless* others as well. Please, read on.


Dear Sojourner,

I really like your blog. Even though I am white and sometimes delicate, you make me want to be a strong black woman. I was wondering if I could ask you to do me a favor. I think you should blog something inspirational for a friend of mine who has recently given up on men.
You can lie if necessary.

Please? Yes? Okay, thanks!

-Anonymous (person you are friends with)

PS: Also, did you SEE the youtube clip I sent you from Sesame Street with Aaron Neville singing with Ernie? That is like the song of my childhood, and Aaron Neville's musical stylings are just outrageous.


Dear Anonymous,

I am more than happy to support your “friend’s” recent decision to renounce man-love. I am quite flattered that in a time of weakness, you have come to the blacktress for the ultimate boost. Here’s why I think it’s a good thing to give up on men—at least for a year or two while you get your head right.

One of the best things about swearing off the gender of your desire is that you suddenly have a wealth of time on your hands. No longer spending hours on the phone, obsessing over every detail of a 4-minute conversation,** or running to parties in the depths of the outer boroughs in hopes of playing it cool,*** you can focus on making the world a better place for you and your loved ones.

I’ve created a pithy list of all the things you can do instead of thinking about men. Feel free to print it, cut it out, and laminate it—you can keep it in your wallet next to your safety condom.


When You Let Go of Man-Love, You Can Spend More Time:

• Baking
• Doing needlepoint and other crafts
• Sleeping
• Animal Rescue
• Canvassing for Barack Obama
• Journaling
• Listening to Ani Difranco while crying into a pint of Haagen Daz
• Going to the gym (where I like to eat whole pizzas while sitting on the exercise bike)
• Blogging
• Traveling to foreign lands and starting a pop-music career.
• Sending Facebook messages to that friend from high school you’ve been meaning to call, but haven’t gotten around to ‘cause of all the worrying about men you were doing.
• Engaging in discourse
• Singing along to the soundtracks of Broadway musicals (dudes hate that)
• Writing your first major motion picture—a period piece set during the Franco-Prussian War.
• Applying for jobs you actually might want.
• Saving your money for that big trip to Malta and/or Australia.
• Fighting the power
• Attending rock concerts and other live performances
• Re-reading the Harry Potter series and/or Searching the internet for still photos of naked Daniel Radcliffe in Equus.

This is just a small sampling of all the things you’ll be able to do with your newfound emotional and temporal freedom. In fact, I would say you’re not “giving up on men” so much as “giving in to yourself!”

Congratulations. I think you are on your way to becoming a strong black woman.

Love,
Sojo

PS: I have seen the Aaron-and-Ernie duet, and I must agree that it is uplifting on so many levels. Let's relive the magic:






* Actually, I think the exact number is 345.

**“Oh my god, I thought he was going to kiss me, but then he paused—but was it more of a comma kind of pause or a semicolon?!”

*** Girl, we all know you came from Harlem to Sunset Park for one reason only…

Visa: It's Everywhere You Want to Be

Remember that old slogan for Visa credit cards? Well, I’m now using it to apply to Work and Holiday visas, because quite frankly, everywhere I want to be is DOWN UNDER.

I sent in my application and paid my $195 Australian dollars (which is, sadly, about $194.50 US dollars) this morning, guys—Australia, here I come!!!
As I went through the 8-page application, I gave them all my personal biznass, and half expected to have to submit a blood sample and/or provide a retinal scan. Luckily, they just wanted to make sure I wasn’t a thieving immigrant looking to have major surgery done on their shores. Sample questions included:

What is your usual occupation?: BLACKTRESS
What employment do you intend to seek in Australia?: Michelle Obama and/or Beyoncé impersonator
Do you intend to perform medical procedures during your stay in Australia?: Only if you consider making people HANDLE THE TRUTH a medical procedure


Seriously, though, I’m really excited. And nervous. Where will I live? Will I find work? Will I find people to make out with so that my blog can thrive down under? What if I get attacked by one of the many venomous creatures that only exist in Australia (the only island that is also a country and also a continent!)?! I’ve been reading up on my soon-to-be home, and I’ve discovered many interesting factoids, which I will share with you:

• Victoria is home to Megascolides Australis the GIANT EARTH WORM! Measuring up to 12 feet long, it’s huge and gross, and I think might have been the basis for the movie Tremors.
• Australia did not become a proper nation until 1901, when the 6 colonies decided to come together.
• The notion of Australian citizenship didn’t exist until 1949; before that, they were British citizens.
• The average population density in Australia is only 6 people per square mile! The world average is about 117.
• I plan on visiting the following places simply for their names: Wagga Wagga, Poowong, Burrumbuttock, and….wait for it….wait for it….Tittybong! I am hoping to become the mayor of one of these places.
  

It also has a temperate climate, a population full of young, strapping lads, and a great healthcare system. I also hear the Melbourne Comedy Festival is the jam and the jump-off, and perhaps I’ll go there and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the TRUTH!

Sidebar: In Australia, comedians are known as ‘crackers.’ When I first heard the term used to describe Kathy Griffin, I thought it was quite racist and more than a little bit rude—until I got down with the lingo.

Mondays With Artists

You know, I think I may just miss the cray-cray artists who contact my publication. Here’s the latest letter I got in the mail. It is two pages—SINGLE SPACED—so I’ve chosen to omit certain chunks of her life story, leaving what I think is the best and brightest. Hope you enjoy!

Colors of My Heart

“If you asked me when I first became an artist I would have to say it was when I got my first box of Crayola crayons. I grew up in the 40s. I was spawned in the Edgewater in New Jersey. I remember the first day of kindergarten, I had to draw a picture, when I tried to turn it in too the teacher I was told I write my name on it. I couldn’t write my name, what a shame! That was the beginning of a long torturous journey through public education for me, a child of the 40s without a guardian, on a quest to find the artist in me.”
[I kid you not. Things to note: 1. she was “spawned,” much like a woodland animal, not “born” as we often think of ourselves; 2. she fails to tell us if the drawing she handed in on that first day was good—should she really be saying this is when she first became an artist?]

“…I have a misty watercolor memory of a public park where neighborhood children were taught arts and crafts…I owe a debt of gratitude to the powers that made that park program happen. From there came the spark that illuminated my young soul and ignited that unquenchable fire to express in watercolor what I see and fee. Thanks also to the coloring books and those books that require you to wet the darkened spaces that magically turn to royal blue and magenta. These were the building blocks, the first steps, and the activities that actually made me a visible person.”

[Um, is this some sort of twisted arts-and-crafts acceptance speech? Oh, and she's quoting song lyrics-- "misty watercolored memories..."--get original, lady! Also note the mixed metaphor of using watercolor to cause a fire. This woman is deep, and has a lot to share. Two pages worth, to be exact.]

“There were special people too who pulled me out of my shell by engaging me in that most fascinating of worlds, creativity-making something wonderful out of bits of nothing. I made a puppet out of strips of paper with flour/water glue. I named him Mortimer Snerd; he led to a phenomenal puppet show on the bay window of our first floor bedroom. What an incredible day that was...

“The people in my family are not plant people. Plants seem to be a luxuriant thing during those hard times when putting food on the table and a roof over the head were daily accomplishments. But, my sister was a teenager at last and she had a plant. I’m not sure what kind of a plant it was. I suspect it was some form of ivy in a clay pot. The first time I saw it was riveting; here was something non-essential, something growing-alive, something that needed to be recorded. My first real watercolor was of that plant. Then came a collection of flowers from a picture in a book. But the work that made me credible at last with my family (on my mother’s side, at least) was of a church in British Columbia. That watercolor will outlive me by many years and has been coveted by more than a few of my mothers relatives...

“Today I teach drawing to children. Some kids only want to draw ‘Mr. Underpants’ and they are happy, and I am glad they are happy. But, I look for the quiet one in the corner, the invisible one, and I search my bag of tricks for the right word, line, or color, that will light the spark that will allow the world to see the wonder that they truly are.”

[That is the very end of the letter. Some things to note in the last three paragraphs: (1) Mortimer Snerd, homemade hand puppet and actor, who debuted on the bay window for one night only, was an actual puppet in the 50s, popular among kids and adults alike. here he is:

How creepy is he?

(2) Perhaps the ellipsis from the hand-puppet to the plant seems jarring, and you’re wondering why I would have eliminated the transition sentence. Well, I didn’t. There was absolutely nothing that led from the good ol’ days of puppetry to plant people; (3) Note the bitter tone that exudes from the phrase “made me credible at last with my family (on my mother’s side, at least)—lord knows what dad’s side thinks of her wayward lifestyle; (4) Who is “Mr. Underpants”? Does she mean Spongebob SquarePants?; (5) That is the end of the letter. There is no request for an article to be written, no comments on our magazine and how it’s influenced her, no questions about our publishing process or recent issues. She just seemed to, you know, want to let us know a little bit about her. I really hope she has fellow artist elderly friends to share her stories with.]

Black History Month All Year Round

Hey Guys,

For your viewing pleasure, here's a live version of Sojourner's stand-up show during Black History Month. Topics include:
Slavery
Gentrification
Ps in Vs Without Cs


I hope you enjoy.
Oh, and remember: it's comedy. Let's not get our panties in a twist.


Part 2:

Sojourner and the Giant Peach

Last week I decided the only way to get my groove back was to get back on the dating scene I know and love—the internet dating scene. As many of you know (and if you don’t know, click here!), there’s nothing that revs my engine quite like the boost of an internet date. The reasons for this are manifold:

1. I am able to sharpen my social skills by meeting new people
2. My sense of superiority is increased when I receive emails from people who are unable to spell-check, telling me that they are “realy layed back and into all kind of stuff.”
3. I am reminded that there are a whole host of single men out there, just looking to have a relationship…or put their P in your V—and you’ve gotta be able to tell the difference.
4. Meeting randoms in heavily populated, well-lit environments is a good way to prepare for traveling to a foreign land where I’ll have to make new friends ASAP and stretch myself to my limits.

Last week, while bored on the plantation, I put an ad up on the personals section of CL—you know, CrazyList.org. Within minutes, the inbox of my alias email address was flooded with replies.

In the words of Sally Field during her Oscar acceptance speech, “You like me! You really like me!”

Unfortunately, not too many of my “suitors” were suitable—although I was quite glad I’d put in my post, “For the love of god, do NOT send me pictures of your man parts.” I think that really helped cut down on the potential pervy responses.

Of the 20 responses, about 2 of them were worth gchatting with and getting to know. And boy, was I glad I did. Take, for instance, J.R.

JR is a young man who lives outside of the city and was randomly checking out craigslist. His first email to me was:
Im Jacob... and i love you already... well from what i hear...

i cant wait to find out if you are really there ... cause you sound cool as hell.

I mean, how could I not respond? Sure, he could have capitalized here and there, and I appreciate a good apostrophe as much as the next gal, but in these two lines he displayed three very important traits: (1) the willingness to jump the gun and tell a stranger he loves them; (2) the knowledge of my innate coolness; (3) the propensity for over-using ellipses.

Jacob and I started gchatting and I learned that he was attending culinary school and would gladly cook for me. After about 20 minutes, I logged off, not feeling any sparks, but excited at the prospect of getting a free meal in the near future. The next morning, the eager beaver messaged me again. The conversation that followed epitomizes everything I love about meeting people on the internet. Note: there have been no changes made to excerpted text below (note the typos). Everything you read is as it originally appeared. Read and enjoy.

Jacob: do you mind if i b other you/

me: why not at all
[this shows you how willing I am to kill time while in the workplace. Lord knows I didn’t need to be chatting with a random at 10am]

Jacob: i had a really weird dream

me: what happened?

Jacob: growing up there was this really hip cd store called plastic fantastic....that was the setting
and they would let you listen to cd;s before you bought them
so cuba gooding was recomending me crappy music

me: hahahha
[Why is he telling me this?]

JR:and then i went outside... and it was my old soccer team from high school... but they were playing football
and my dog was the quarterback ... standing up like a person and throwing the ball

me: you mean like air bud?
air bud 3: golden receiver?

JR: so cuba comes out and gives me the keys to his moped
yeh exactly and he tells me i need to go get more water for the team
and i end up riding my moped ..... being chased by robin hood the serial killer through my freinds house

me: my god
jr, this is intense!

JR: i k now it was terrible
so i found refuge in a pizza place

me: well, it was nice of cuba to give you his moped
i've always liked him in films

JR: hes ok
bad taste in music
i woke up before i got my pizza... still scared of robbin hood

me: which robin hood?
men in tights?
or the animated one?

JR: neither... its like gotham city robin hood with a sythe
and a really big jacket like the talking heads
so then i took a piss cause thats what men do in the morning
and threw the ball for my dog
ate some breakfast.... and then i remembered youd be here

me: jr
you are a peach.

Google search: James and the Giant Peach. I think I kinda look like the little boy.

To Catch a Predator

I think I may have to leave the hemisphere simply because I’ve gone out with too many guys in New York. For serious.

Last night, I joined White strong black woman Katie Walsh at a networking event for those in the publishing industry. I normally shrink in fear at the idea of swirling my wine glass and explaining my worth to strangers, but if I want to take the blacktress global, I’ve gotta be BLACKtive and show the world what they’re missing. Armed with my biznass cards (holla at a vistaprint.com!), I made my way down to Nolita hotspot Sweet & Vicious.

Once inside, I was greeted with a scent that can only be described as a combination of wheat beer, overpriced margaritas, sweat, and the desire for validation from others. By the time I made my way through the multitude and found my crew, I was sweating like a ho in church—how could I network when I was a hot sweaty mess?
I walked to the back of the bar, in hopes of making it to the outdoor garden for a spot of cool air. Before I could get outside, I was stopped in my tracks by a sight so heinous, my feet when numb.
Mike the Predator.

Mike and I went on a date in the early summer of 2006, shortly after I was emancipated from the shackles of the Deaf. He was probably my fourth “real” date outside of college, and when he ducked out of the bar at 2 am and returned with a bouquet of flowers from a bodega (I kid you not), I thought I’d found a future baby daddy. From Saturday morning until our date on Tuesday, he was all up in my George Foreman (grill) sending texts, leaving messages, and asking me if I “was as excited for the date as he was!”

I was young. I was naïve. I had been weakened by the Deaf. And for some crazy reason, I thought he was seriously just that sprung over the blacktress.
I was wrong.
When we finally went out on our date
He showed up for our date 15 minutes late (-10)
He said he’d have something planned, and then just took me to a nearby bar so he could grab a burger (-5)
He asked me to come over his house and said he’d get a car service to drop me off at home. (ew. -5)
Being the fool I was, I still proceeded to make out with him in a private area of the bar, and after a few minutes, he UNZIPPED HIS PANTS AND PULLED OUT HIS FLACID MEMBER.
I.
KID.
YOU.
NOT.

AAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Needless to say, that was our last date.

I remember going home in tears, wondering why in god’s name I was releasing some sort of asshole-attracting pheromone (little did I know this was only the beginning of my dating joys in NYC). Soon after I ended up with the polar opposite of Pervy Mike—the Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college, and would NEVER pull out his member out of turn.

When I saw Mike networking at Sweet & Vicious, with his slicked back hair and tan suit, he looked like a pimp who worked the docks of Miami, just waiting for an unsuspecting ‘fugee to be taken into his grasp. Or, as Katie put it, “he totally looks like he’d be a sexual predator!”
How right she was.

Being so cramped it was impossible to network or look attractive, I left the bar shortly after arriving. Even Saturday morning, the idea that Mike was still alive, single, and able to stalk new victims still baffled me.
That is, until I met MIKE NUMBER 2!!!!

I was invited to a friend’s engagement party in midtown, where I partook of an open bar and yummy apps. Out of nowhere, I was approached by a clean-looking gentleman with spectacles and well-maintained facial hair. He introduced himself as Mike, and we proceeded to talk for most of the evening.
He was 33, lived in Greenwich, CT, and worked at a hedge fund.
Within an hour, he was asking me if I’d like to come to Connecticut with him.
WTF?!
Honestly, men have lost their minds. His readiness to bed me can only be defined as gall. No—hubris. Yes, hubris and over-weening pride!!!

After taking my number and accepting that I wouldn’t go home with him, I left and headed to another party with a new homegirl who is quickly rising in the ranks, where the theme was ‘bananas’—and it was indeed b-a-n-a-n-a-s, like Gwen Stefani says. There, I danced to Justin Timberlake with a man who can only be described as a walking orgasm.
Seriously, he was hotter than anything I’d ever seen. Even hotter than the crazy Greek.

After three JT jams in a row, we sealed our attraction with a smooch, and I walked off chat with my friend—CAUSE WE DON'T LOVE THEM HOS.
Somehow, me and the “walking O” started to talking again (after my gal pal pointed out that he was “eye-fucking the shit out of me”), and the fact that he HAS A GIRLFRIEND slipped out.

“Oh god, I feel like such a terrible person,” I said. Because, seriously, nothing’s more awkward than feeling like you’ve forced your lips onto someone who didn’t want them.
But I was wrong.
“No, you shouldn’t. I wanted to do it, too.”
OH SNAP!!!
Turned out hottie’s gf not only lived in Brooklyn, she was asleep, at home SICK, as he was flirting with me!!

Now, this is a hot ass mess. A woman can’t even sleep in peace when she’s got a boyfriend—dude will use any sort of excuse to misbehave.
“Oh, well, babe, you were in the middle of your REM sleep, and so I figured it was fair game….”
HUBRIS, OVER-WEENING PRIDE!!!

If I wasn’t certain men were dirty dogs, I then get a call from the bride-to-be from the engagement party and the following rings in my ears at 11am.
“Naomi, I am so glad you didn’t go home with Mike—he has herpes!!”
I KID YOU NOT, Y’ALL!!!

That fool was going to try to get me to cross state lines with him to Connecticut so he could give me herpes—the gift that keeps on giving!!!

Look, I know STD talk isn’t sexy, and is often quite difficult, but you better disclose that info ASAP—I’m not trying to be one of those couples in a kayak (“he has it. I don’t.”)!!!!

So, over the weekend, from Thursday to Sunday, I learned the following:
1. A man who pulled his P out in a bar WILL live to the tell the tale—even if you’d hoped he was dead in a ditch.
2. People in Greenwich have herpes—STDs aren’t just for the lower class!
3. A man who is hotter than Ethan Hawke making out with Angelina Jolie while James McAvoy watches DOES have a girlfriend, and WILL still make out with you.
4. "To Catch a Predator" needs to extend its search to working young men in NYC.
5. HUBRIS IS EVERYWHERE!!!!

Breaking the (Blogger's) Block

Hey Guys,

Sorry for falling off the face of the blogosphere (is that what the cool web-savvy kids are calling it nowadays?). I’ve been at a loss for the funny—or, at least, anything funny enough to post. Although the return of Dexter to my on-demand menu has boosted my spirits slightly, I can’t shake off the cloud hanging overhead. Sojourner’s feeling a little off her game. I need another white valedictorian of a historically black college to get the world riled up or something.
As a woman of color and writer, I’ve learned that the only way to get over a writer’s block is to…write. So, in the spirit of breaking the cycle (of violence, oppression, and non-bloggery), let’s get warmed up. Here are some things I thought about blogging about, but couldn’t quite get off the ground:

Another female middle-school teacher was arrested for having an affair with a student.
Kelsey Peterson, a math teacher at Lexington Middle School, in Lexington, Nebraska, plead guilty to traveling across state lines with the intent of elicit sex with a minor on July 1. She started having sex with the student when he was 12 years old, and when rumors of their affair became public, she put him in a car and headed to Mexico.

I kid you not.

While there are many ways to look at this, I think you know what Sojourner would say:
If this doesn’t show you how hard it is to find a decent man, I don’t know what does. Year after year, gainfully employed, intelligent (and cray-cray) young women, faced with the bleak truth of single life in a small town, have no choice but to get them while they’re young and impressionable and try to make love work. So blinded by the need for affection, they ignore all laws and common sense, risking jail time and registry as a sex offender just so they can find a moment of true love—it really is enough to make the baby Jesus cry.

I’m suffering from Black Mama Drama to the Maxxxxx.
For those of you who don’t have black mothers, let me explain. While yes, all parents/guardians like to stress out their children and have trouble seeing them as adults when the time comes, the single black mother is a different, fiercer breed of parent. With the strength of Audre Lorde and other blacktivists she has raised her children, living a life of sacrifice from the moment she chose to carry them to term. Currently living in the house that mamadukes built, I have discovered I am damned if I do AND if I don’t. When I “stay out till 3am, keeping whore hours” (yes, this was said) I do not want to spend time with the family; when I stay in on a Sunday afternoon, I am treated to a torrent of anger over my “pigsty of a room”—I have to ask myself if slavery days were ever really over.

The Hunt for Bindi Continues…
With the aforementioned black mama drama, the decision to move down under is becoming clearer and clearer. My E.T.A. is October 21, 2008—just when springtime is coming. (I’m going to laugh in the face of god and nature by experiencing two summer seasons in one year) I’ve overcome the biggest hurdle yet: finding a place to get my hair did. Serengeti Hair and Beauty, in the heart of Sydney, will handle my nappy scandals for the low-low price of $90-$150!!! AAAAAHHHHH!
Um, the blacktress is going to have to start a haircare fundraiser, stat.

I think I’ll begin my search for the Emmy-nominated child-activist with the Taronga Zoo, in Sydney. Perhaps Bindi will be cuddling a koala, and will have her guard down so that I can swoop in and befriend her.


Pizza, Pizza, Pizza!
The rejection by the Biblical Teacher (that’s what I’m calling him now) is still hurting Sojourner, which shouldn’t be the case. While the first weekend of crying and watching Dexter was to be expected, I try my best to live by two mottos: Ass, gas, or grass—nobody rides for free; and Erase, replace, embrace new face. But for some reason, I just really feel like I f-d up a good thing, and I’m going to die alone, found only by authorities after the melted pint of ice cream I was consuming combines with the scent of my rotting carcass to create a smell so foul the neighbors had no choice but to call and complain.

What—too morbid?

I found myself thinking of another time I was jilted by a fella I really thought I had “locked down.” At the time I was ranting on the phone to a friend as I perused the Pizza Hut menu. I figured I had nothing to lose—certainly not pounds—since I’d already relapsed into old habits.
After she and I hung up, I turned my phone back on to order my trans-fat pizza pie for one, and I was suddenly struck by the almost maudlin words on the back of Pizza Hut’s flyer.

“At Pizza Hut we strive for excellence. If we do not give you your receipt or fall short of your expectations in any way, we would like to hear from you.”

Do you know my first thought?
“I wish men were like Pizza Hut.”
Unlike most self-absorbed guys, who say they are “working through some stuff” and/or “going through a lot right now” (striving for excellence in their own way), Pizza Hut is willing to be called out on it! If, Pizza Hut lets me down during their process of achieving excellence, they not only expect, but ask for phone call. As far as I’m concerned, that makes Pizza Hut more attractive than any man I’ve ever known.

Okay. Now I know that blurb was written by a team of clever advertising executives, most of whom minored in psychology, solely to inspire me to say, “fuck you, Dominos! You don’t care about me!” And yet, I felt like Pizza Hut was proving to be more comforting in two sentences than any heterosexual relationship I had ever been in. And that, I thought immediately afterwards, is a damn shame.


So, in summation:
When your black mama drama gets to be too much to bear, and the repeated viewings of your favorite tv show don’t get you going, apply for a work visa in a foreign country and be glad that you can buy pizza anywhere.

I DEMAND you come back, Dexter!

So, as you know, I’ve been jilted, once again, by a man. Although crazy artists do occasionally provide the boost needed during the work day, I find I need something stronger to really handle my emotional scandal once I’m away from the distractions of the plantation. Oftentimes this is some sort of documentary on Discovery Health, where I can watch everyday people suffer unspeakable tragedies and display the triumph of the human spirit.

I realized the effect these documentaries had on me many moons ago, when I was watching the special “I Eat 30,000 Calories a Day,” which followed 3 morbidly obese people as they consumed more food than it seemed humanly possible. Each segment reached its crescendo when the omniscient director would place all the food the person ate in a given day on one table, so they could really see how much they were taking in.
“I guess do eat a lot.” Said one British woman matter-of-factly.
Yes. Yes, you do.

Lately, Discovery Health hasn’t been doing it for me, and last weekend I needed a fix to get through the dark times.

That’s when I discovered the National Geographic Channel—or “Nat Geo” as they like to call it—where they aren’t afraid to go to the far reaches of the third world and beyond to bring you images of terrifying and captivating deformities. These tales of genetic anomalies are most effective for silencing my tears, for nothing really helps you put petty crap in perspective like seeing an Indian girl who was born with 8 limbs (I HEART LAKSHMI).

I learned the story of Lakshmi last Sunday night, when I was only able to fall asleep after watching “The Girl With 8 Limbs,” followed by “The Science of Dwarfism,” and then “The Science of Gigantism.” (Watching the gigantism doc actually made me feel somewhat better, as I realized it was possible for a glass of milk to be too tall.) As I stared at the television, transfixed, I felt a spark of hope as the Indian doctors took on this groundbreaking surgery. When Lakshmi survived—with only 4 LIMBS—I knew that all was right in the world, even if I was destined to die alone.

The magical effect of this programming is potent, but not long-lasting, and over the last two days, I’ve been in need of another hit. Unfortunately, every time I check the program listings, it’s just stuff about “cooking light” and “people who get kidnapped while vacationing overseas”—bor-ing! I quickly changed the channel to Showtime so I could watch Dexter On Demand. Because, when all else fails, nothing lifts the mood like watching an hour-long drama about a serial killer who makes other serial killers his victims.

I started watching Dexter for the first time about 3 weeks ago, when I stayed in on a sunny Memorial Day and ended up watching 7 episodes in a row. For some reason, getting into the mind of a psychopath was riveting, and that Michael C. Hall is no slouch to look at—even when he’s killing. He really shows the seedy underbelly of everyone, and after a couple of episodes, I kinda start to get where he’s coming from. (Apparently, my therapist thinks this is a “red flag”—to me, it’s a sign of fine screenwriting)

I started season 2 a couple of weeks ago, and came home last night ready to dig back into the show—and take my mind off of things. However, when I went to the On-Demand menu, I was greeted with a site more frightening than the girl with 8 limbs: DEXTER WAS NO LONGER AVAILABLE ON DEMAND.

WTF?!

Um, Showtime, how the f*&% can you tell me I can watch something when I want, but then not let me watch it?! How can you suck me in with your riveting nail-biting drama and then yank it away from me before I can get closure?! How am I supposed to get through this latest rejection without you, Dexter, to tell me all humans are worthless?! HOW?!!!!

Oh god.
How could they both leave me at the same time?!

So, I’m going to go home to night and pray to black Jesus (hair like lamb’s wool!) that there’s some damn good documentary on Nat Geo or D-Health—I don’t know, something about a girl born with a twin inside her liver, a boy with the genetic makeup of a Labrador, or a paraplegic who climbed an ancient Mayan temple. Whatever will remind me that it’s not as bad as I think it is.

Please come back to me, Dex. I need to know how it ends. You're the only man I can trust, because....well, I know that if you didn't like me you'd kill me in a methodical manner. There's no in-between with you.

Contests With Artists II

Here are some more gems from the artists you don't know and don't love.
Again, I must stress: I would LOVE to show you the images that accompany these titles and captions, but I'd hate to end up in the slammer just because I hurt an artist's feelings--and because I did something "illegal."

Caption: The anger portrayed here has a long history. It use to be that I had an anger problem like most Americans. My motivation is to do "quality" work. I use logic/scientific and holistic/random methods to push me past the envelope of "realistic" art. [I would come up with a snarky comment, but the fact that "quality" is in quotes shows that she knows just as well as I do that this is a hot mess]

Oh, this next one is really funny to me because it is part of a series. An older gentleman submitted about 6 self-portraits, all containing multiple images of himself in one space. For example: We see him painting himself while looking at his reflection in a mirror; in another, we walk into a gallery that only has images of his face on all the walls and pillars; in another, he sits by a fireplace having a conversation with himself over a bottle of wine. In "Marc, please sit still," we see the artist sitting in a chair, posing for a portrait. He is being painted by...HIMSELF!!!

Title: Marc, please sit still
Caption: Watercolor, 15" x 18" The idea of an artist painting the artist going beyond the typical portrait into portraying the actual process of doing the painting and having a conversation with himself seemed like an intriging story telling device.
[I think this is a run-on sentence]

Title: In My Realm
Caption: I have loved and collected iridescent glass for as long as I can remember. I also love science fiction, space and the supernatural. When I looked into my display of glass and saw the reflections of me and the art glass I felt as though I were in space......In My Realm. I knew this was my self portrait......this is me.
[Does this make anyone else a little sad?]

Title: Sharon Scissorhands
Caption: Acrylic. Me as my alter-ego Edward Scissorhands.

Title: Me as Don Quijote
Caption: I have that dreamer type of personality that sometimes causes me to sally forth and tilt at windmills so I feel a kinship with the Quixote character of Cervantes.
[That's funny--I have a dreamer type of personality that causes me to sally forth to my computer keyboard and document this weirdness]

Title: Chartreuse
Caption: Acrylic. I am chartreuse...I feel unreal and conspicuous...I want to hide...and be noticed.
[Who doesn't, lady?]

I really like these next two because the guy thought he'd submit two different portraits, to really up his chance of winning. I love his simple captions.

Title: Studying violin
Caption: I am looking intensely at my violin.
[In this painting, the artist holds his violin up to his face, obscuring half of him. Yes, he is looking at his violin]

Title: Self with tuxedo
Caption: As I am a violinist, I wanted to pose with my tuxedo.
[Naturally]

I am Danny Glover.

Have you ever seen the movie Lethal Weapon? One of the great buddy-cop comedies of the 20th century, it stars Mel “Before I Went Crazy and Started Slamming Jews” Gibson and Danny “Proud to be a Brother” Glover. Mel plays Riggs, a young homicidal cop all bent out of shape after the untimely death of his wife, and Danny is veteran cop Murtaugh, who’s just looking to retire and get off the mean streets. Throughout the film, as cars flip over, bullets graze their heads, and they fight for justice—and their lives—Murtaugh says “I’m too old for this shit.”

This line is repeated throughout Lethal Weapons 1, 2, 3, and 4.

I can currently relate to this line like no other.

As you know, Sojourner’s no spring chicken. And as you know if you’ve been following this blog, I can’t keep a sane, straight man to save my life. From Australia to Astoria to the depths of Brooklyn, these dudes are not treating me right. The latest blow comes from a “man” I thought was a tender gentleman caller, who spent the last month calling, texting, and wooing Sojourner with invitations to 8th grade prom and other classy dates. After asking me to spend the night on a weeknight (for the second week in a row), and speaking in more future tenses than a confused ESL student, I asked him what was going on with us.
You know, a simple state-of-the-union address.
You know, perhaps a little reassurance that this was more than a hook-up thing.
It had been a month.
There was constant texting—initiated by him. He even went so far as to respond to my telephone message with a text when he was unable to answer the phone, and then promised to call the next day.
AND HE DID.

So, you can imagine my surprise when he said I seemed to want more than he wanted, as though I was the crazy one.
And he did this an hour before we were supposed to go see a friend's improv show, meaning that not only was I left depressed and jilted, I had no Friday night plans while he got to scamper off and laugh at comedic improvisation.
One of my first thoughts (after "Why is this happening again?" and "What is wrong with me?") was "I am sick and tired of this shit"--much like Murtaugh throughout the Lethal Weapon quadrilogy (is that a word? Probably not). Like him, I just want to settle down, get out of the crossfire of single life in NYC, and retire from this dangerous game before I become a walking STD with a heart made of stone.


(remember this?)

As I lick my wounds in solitary confinement, here is a handy list that should help anyone who tries to reach out to me during this dark time.

Words and Phrases That Will Make Me Cry and Make You Feel Awkward
(Please Omit From All Sentences/Conversations/Email):

Date
Boyfriend
Happy/Happiness (also: Future Happiness)
The Bible (also: King James Version)
Television actor Dean Cain
Able-bodied
Lucky
Sex
Coitus
Relations
Relationship
Battleship (including Russian Montage film “Battleship Potemkin”)
Barren Womb
Nice Guy
Bears
8th grade
Prom
Massachusetts
“Sex and the City” Movie(who takes a girl to see that WILLINGLY, then says she’s being too much?!)
Intense
“I don’t think we should do this.”
Teach for America (also: NYC Teaching Fellows, teaching in general, or "school")
Brooklyn
Q Train
Self-respect
“I don’t know.” (Please be completely certain when we speak. I won’t take it well.)