You Don't Have to Go Far to Go INSIDE CAUCASIA

Sorry for the delayed blogging--I'm still regaining my strength after my intense journey into Caucasia. For some reason, it was even more nerve-racking than that time I lived in Australia, right in the center of it all. I think it's because of the shock--you don't expect to find such a non-diverse population in your same time zone in 2011. Add to that the abundance of nature and I felt so out of my element that I almost demanded that the toll booth worker stamp my passport!

Before I go into my visits with my married friends, I must show you a photograph of my #1 New Hampshire Fan:


Yes, that is a handlebar mustache. Yes, that is a Hawaiian shirt under his windbreaker. Yes, his head like a supremacist.
And yes, his hand is inappropriately close to my breast area.

I have arrived.

He didn't tell me his name, but he did tell me that I could "tug on these [his handlebars] whenever you want!!!"
No, there was no drink minimum.

All in all, I'd say the set went fine. I did, however, experience a mild fail: I completely forgot my train of thought during my set. I am not kidding. I was doing a lot of crowd work, thinking I'd need to fill my 20 minutes (and realizing that any and all Jewmor--Jew Humor--was lost on the crowd), and it just sidetracked me. I wasn't able to make my Tyler Perry references, nor could I reference anything else that took place in pop culture over the last 20 years.

And, mid-joke, I realized it was probably poor form to talk about comparing parenting to having a terminal illness at a breast cancer fundraiser. (#awkward) There was much awkward back-pedaling.

But all in all, I think the crowd was okay with it. It definitely wasn't my target demographic, so the fact that I got laughs at all--and wasn't actively boo'd offstage or heckled--is a success, I guess. It was a bit weird--as you all know, I'm used to highs and lows when it comes to emotions. When this set was done, I was relatively "meh." I didn't feel horrible or terrible--so I didn't really know how to cope. As I stood in the "talent area" watching the remainder of the show, a bald, old Caucasian man wearing a salmon-pink sweater approached. As he walked by to get to the bathroom (yes, the talent area was near the bathroom), he pointed his fist toward me. I wondered if this was his geriatric attempt at assaulting me but then I realized that he wanted to give me a fist bump!!!

Yes, guys, it happened. An old man gave me a fist bump. I guess he was the one who got my slavery humor.

Other than the show, I got to see some friends I hadn't seen in a while, which was nice. It was also a bit surreal, because they are both mature married couples, with property and children and such. My New Hampshire friends are out of control. Have you ever had a moment with someone where you just think, "How are you this White and I never knew it?" Well, yeah, that's what happened.

As we drove the two hours outside of Boston to their acreage, I watched as the number of bars on my cell phone decreased. As we drove up the winding backroads, I figured out that the trees outnumbered the people about 14 to 1. As we turned onto the private road that leads to their gorgeous house, I wondered if anyone would be able to hear me scream--not that I planned to, but I was just wondering.

We walked to the door and with a gentle push, it opened--they aren't even locking this shit up, y'all! You know it's backwoods when you don't have to say something when you see something and can just sleep without the door locked. The door opened and through the open back door, I could see the lady of the house--like I'd never seen her before.

She stood outside doling out food to the full-grown chickens in the chicken coop, with the 10-month-old baby on her hip!!

For those of you who can't imagine what this could look like, here's a visual aid:

She has become a pioneer wife, I thought to myself. It got really intense, though, when I had hit my bedtime and wanted to rest up before the big show. I couldn't tuck in, however, until the hubby had started a fire in the wood stove downstairs. WHAT?!

This historical relic kept my room both toasty warm and smelling of pine.

I was out of my element; I started having slavery flashbacks. I think part of why Caucasia enjoys living like it's the 1890s is because back then, they were running thangs! I mean, if I could travel back in time and bring my educational opportunities and tampons, I'd be willing to check out the days of yore, too. But as it stands, I'm just glad I'm in a time and place where hate crimes can at least be caught on camera phones and punished.

I gotta run and interview a student, but let's talk soon!

Mic Check!

When blogging on the plantation I do all my writing in a Word document so that if massa comes by it’ll look like I’m hard at work. This document has grown to 214 pages (and counting) and consists of 74,765 words. Clearly I know how to commit to things.
So why am I always so afraid I’m a failure?

I was up last night, tossing and turning, totally wired like ‘twas the night before Christmas. I couldn’t figure out why I was so anxious. Was it because I met a Deaf ex-convict with Maori-like tattoos who made me an origami crane?
Or because I’m doing a 20-minute set at a country club in New Hampshire on Saturday night?
Yep, I think that’s it.

I haven’t performed in over a week and haven’t found much time to hit an open mic, but I’m not really nervous about being on stage. I am, however, nervous about no one laughing at my jokes. I mean, New Hampshire—that’s a wild card of a state. Their motto is “Live Free or Die,” which you know appeals to Sojourner. But they’re 93.9% White (thanks, Wikipedia!), and most of that’s Canadian! Guys, this is Caucasia to the maxxxxxxxx.

Will they get my Harriet Tubman jokes? Will they think a gentrified vagina is the height of hilarity? Do they even have gentrification in New Hampshire? They did make same-sex marriage legal before NYC, so they definitely have a win there. I just hope some gays come out to the show! $5 from every ticket goes to the Susan G. Komen Foundation, so there should be plenty of boob-lovers in the house (what does that mean?). I need plenty of jokes in the ol’ back pocket, so that I can quickly shift gears if I start hearing crickets.

I’m gonna have to start writing out my set list. My first lineup is just all the jokes/ideas I think will work, then I start to screen them and organize it a bit. Here’s what I’ve got so far (yes, this is actually how they are written in my notebook):

• Why I don’t like nature
• Netflix
• Babies = terminal illness – we’re gonna beat this thing
• Fucked up 7-hour job interview
• Work ethics—you don’t pay me to care
• God as dad
• Drink to feel pretty
• Harriet Tubman going to the Montreal Jazz Festival
• INSIDE CAUCASIA
• Jewboo
• Why it’s so cold in the D
• Low Standards/OK Cupid

I don’t know, we’ll see what happens. Friday night I’m staying with friends who live in the New Hampshire countryside. I swear, if they didn't have a baby for me to play with, I would probably have a Shining-style breakdown out in the backwoods. Saturday night, I’m staying with some of the other performers and probably sharing a bed with a random. Wish me luck!

I Can't Keep This To Myself!

Guys,
KWalsh just IM’d me a link to a music video, claiming that it "might be the second coming of 2gether."

Of course, anything that might even hint at 2gether immediately got my attention. Work ethics be damned--I clicked the link.
And I was rewarded.
This “music” video, featuring the apparently non-fake boy band Heart2Heart, is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Please, experience it with me:

For those of you who used to read my takes on Teen Mom and 16 & Pregnant, you know that I can’t watch youth ruin their lives without live blogging. It’s the only way I can begin to process my emotions. And Heart2Heart is certainly pushing some buttons. Here goes.

(italics indicate song lyrics.)

0:01
Okay, so are these supposed to be the lights of a spaceship? Was this done on iMovie?

0:13
The blonde one looks like Ashlee Simpson. Why is ze winking at me?
The two ethnically ambiguous ones must be a nod to post-racial America. What’s with the cinnamon-spiced highlight guy? Is he wearing a pair of diamond earrings? (probably purchased from Claire’s Accessories—this video had a budget of $12 and a footlong sandwich from Subway)
Is he licking his tongue out suggestively? Ew.

0:17
Is that Lance Bass under a blue light? Why is he looking like a vampire?! Ugh, Lance, I have you to blame for this? It’s always the quiet (and secretly gay) ones that surprise you.

0:28
Chad? Yes, it's me, Blacktress. I have a few questions:

1: Why are you wearing a letter jacket with D on it? Your name starts with a C, your band starts with an H. Who’s supervising this script?

Why is your eyeliner so thick?

0:28
Um, these girls look 45. That blonde one’s clearly been on Miami Ink.

0:50
Heart2…. Heart is back / FB chat poppin’ on my Mac.
They’ve been here before and I didn’t know about it?

0:54
I like your status / two thumbs up / I met you last week / playing flip cup.

Why is he sitting on the spaceship floor by a car? What’s with all the chains on his vest? Chad, you need to get it together and let go of the flat iron, the DEP, and the All I’ve ever gotten from a guy I met playing flip cup is a nasty hangover and an STD test scare.

As KWalsh says: I honestly cannot abide the one that does the most singing.

Accept this request/ accept my terms of service / the message has been sent / and all I wanna do is put a heart on your page / heart on your page—let’s make it official.

Agree to terms of service? Is this a legally binding contract?! Do you think he wants to steal the girl’s identity so that he can buy more hair gel and face decals?

1:25
Okay, why is this Nordic Ashlee-Simpson-looking fellow wearing a down parka, headphones, and no shirt in what appears to be a boiler room?

1:32
I don’t wanna play Farmville / I just wanna play for real
The intensity with which he sings that line is baffling to me.

1:34
Okay, seriously, that’s not even hair, you elvish, raven-haired boy. He is wearing a helmet.
Who does the brown-haired one look like?
I need to look up "famous lesbians from the 1990s" to jog my memory.

Oh, right, I got it: They are all giving me Jodie Foster in various stages of her career.

1:42
Multicolored backgrounds for each guy—now we’re talkin’ production values!
Oh my god, why is Ashlee Simpson reaching hir's hand out to me?

I don’t even think he’s mouthing the correct words.

2:00
Okay, Chad is straight up channeling Hedwig at this point.

2:09
Okay, now that Mario Lopez/Dora the Explorer hybrid isn’t even mouthing the words! Do you think Chad is the only native English speaker, which is why he was given the lead?
LANCE BASS, HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE GOOD NAME OF BOY BANDS WITH THIS FOOLERY???

Or, as KWalsh notes: these kids are just a bunch of haircuts! IN MY DAY ‘N SYNC BROUGHT THE GOODS

Ain’t that the gospel truth?

2:09
This is the longest 3 minutes and 21 seconds of my life.

2:25
Press that button, double click / Let’s make it facebook official tonight.
Is “facebook official” new slang for having consensual intercourse?

2:35
He just said “Dance Break”! …. And then went on to show the shittiest dance break in the history of boy bands. Does it count as dancing if they’re just forming geometric tableaus? This is some Cabinet of Dr. Caligari meets Bring it On: All or Nothing type of randomness.

3:04
Did you see how dramatically Chad’s front bangs flipped?! Those things are deadly weapons.

3:21
It’s over. We made it through, guys!

Okay, is it just me or was there an abundance of spirit fingers in this video?

Ain't She a Woman?! / I am the 34.3 percent.

Hey y'all!

Jewboo showed me this video yesterday and I just had to share. This little girl is my (S)hero of the Week. In addition to her hard-hitting questions to financial district massas, I'm loving her Just for Me perm and CIA-agent-style trench. Her ability to stand up to the major power players in Caucasia is inspiring. Give it a look-see. What do you think?


In other news:
[Jewboo, stop reading!]

I found out today that I'm 34.3% body fat.
Ew.

I had a nutrition consultation this morning, which involved testing my resting metabolic rate. To prep for this test, buff trainer Curtis had to take my vitals. Although my weight has slightly decreased (thanks, Weight Watchers!), apparently my body fat percentage qualifies me for The Biggest Loser.

As I sat down, contemplating my inner obesity (I think my blood type is cookies 'n' cream), I flipped through a magazine. Steve, the other trainer, came in and started chatting with Curtis. Surrounded by all the gym equipment with two attractive men talking as though I wasn't there, I started to have a flashback to 11th grade phys ed.
"Should I go in the waiting room while you set up?" I asked.
"If you want to," said Curtis, "but it doesn't really matter."
"Well, I don't want to interrupt y'all, bro'in out and all."
"You can bro out with us if you want," said Steve.
"No, I can't. I have 34.3% body fat."

Clearly, I'm typing this post while doing squats.

What makes the RMR test even more depressing is that, in order to accurately assess your target, you have to breathe through a tube for 10 minutes (that's not the problem). The demoralization comes when they attach a Hannibal Lecter-like piece of headgear to make sure that no air escapes the tube. Your nasal cavity is effectively closed off, and any attempt at a decent hair day is ruined. As I sat there, wondering how one could even go about making a suit of someone else's skin, I realized that it's probably time to stop eating my feelings. But I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with friends now that I don't "grab a drink" after work. I guess we can just.... drink herbal tea? Guh.

Target body fat percentage is 18-24%.
I asked the doctor if he wouldn't mind contacting some of my favorite bakeries to let them know I'm no longer welcome. If he doesn't, I can't promise I'll hold up my end of the bargain.

How are you?!

SHOCKtober Fest!*

*This title in no way relates to the following post.

Guys, I am so sorry it's been forever since I posted. There's been so much going on--much of it ripe for bloggery--but I've been so busy that sitting down and writing it all out has been impossible. Now, of course, it's been 2 weeks and there's no way I can condense it all. But let's give it the ol'-liberal-arts-college try, shall we?

9/29/11
I. am. reeling.

I just finished the final book in The Hunger Games trilogy and I can't even cope. I actually re-read the last three pages twice before finally closing the book. It was simply so intense I couldn't let it be over. A tightly wrought political thriller for the tween set has somehow turned my world upside down. Katniss Everdeen is further proof that you don't have to be black to be a strong black woman.

I am still shaken and stirred, with a twist of lime in me. Suzanne Collins took my breath away, Top Gun style. I've decided to add her to my list of (s)heroes.

10/1/11
I'm heading to LA, guys! Los Angeles! The city of angels and demons and most of the cast of Angels & Demons. I'm going to a voiceover event produced by my VO coach in New York. I'm not one for 48-hour jet-sets, but my mom thinks I need to invest in my dreams, which means attending this event, so I will do so. I have no idea what to expect.

10/3-10/5

LA is cool, but I couldn't live here. I did, however, meet a pretty blacktress from Texas who moved here to become a star. She was very domineering, which I really didn't mind all that much. I think the best part of our forced closeness was her gory, detailed account of her stalker attack a year ago. Of course, it was really terrifying and upsetting, but my first thought, as she explained that her Colgate smile was actually porcelain (because her stalker attacked her and knocked her teeth out), was "Oh my god, you had a stalker? That is so A-list. Have you sent a treatment to Lifetime (television for women)?"

The highlight of my trip was meeting hotel employee Tre Fabrice, who moved to LA three years ago "for the fashion." When I asked where he moved from, he revealed that he was a Detroit native.

I immediately began singing T-Baby's anthem.
"Nah, I'm mad at that," he said as he stretched out on the lobby couch (why wasn't he working?). "Everybody been makin' fun of me for that."

I asked him if he'd read any of my cousin's hood tales and he said no. I linked him up to Amazon and he was quite taken with the synopsis of his latest page-turner. After giving him my cousin's info--he wanted to contact him about being involved in a non-profit he's starting (I kid you not)--he urged me to stay in New York City. I told him he didn't have to worry.

LA is so intense with the healthiness. My friend and I went to a diner and even the diner was on Atkins. I asked for a glass of milk to go with my "7-grain pancakes," and the waiter goes, "Would you like soy milk, almond, milk, rice milk, hemp--"

I want milk milk, Los Angeles! Give me some skim stuff out of an animal I can find on a farm!

Don't get me wrong, y'all--I'm not against vegetarians and vegans, and I do believe animals have feelings. I just cannot stand a high-and-mighty non-meat eater acting like they can't wait to spend their 75th birthday jumping on my bloated belly like it's a trampoline. Just cause you don't eat meat doesn't make you a life-winner. How can it be okay to turn a bean into a nugget??? Everyone was so into their substitutes. And those bitches LOVE. TO. JUICE.

You know, drink a mixture of vegetables and fruits as a meal.

Speaking of juicing, they also love using nouns as verbs--juice. summer. veg. UGH.

That about sums it up, I guess. There's more I'd love to share, but ever since the blog became an un-safe space (needing to defend and explain every turn of phrase and humor-motivated generalization, etc), I'll just cut to the present......which brings us to today.

Last night I did a set at Broadway Comedy Club and it might have been one of my worst stage moments ever. I ate it so hard last night.

That’s comedy speak for “getting no laughs and having no jokes hit”—taken from the idea of “eating shit.”

Being on stage was painful. I felt like Carrie at the prom—except, in this case, I wanted them to laugh and they wouldn’t. Those bright stage lights may have well been pig’s blood, as they soaked me in a sticky liquid of shame and self-loathing that I still can’t get off.

Carrie, there’s no amount of Dove body wash that’ll get that scent out of your hair. After all, Dove is for real women, and you’re clearly a shell of yourself.

As I stood on stage, staring into the faces of white people who didn’t know who Harriet Tubman was or why “Caucasia” is a funny word, I had no way of winning them back. This was a set for TV and I wasn’t supposed to address the audience—meaning, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS?!” wasn’t gonna fly for the cameras. It was just really hard because I’d killed it (comedy speak for “slaying the audience with one’s rapier wit) the night before at Therapy, one of Hell’s Kitchen’s best gay bars. I mean, applause breaks and everything. I felt like I was at home.
Honestly, y’all, it was a straight-up Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List moment.


I know exactly how she feels.


Tonight I'm doing a set at another club, this time with family and friends in attendance. Not just mamadukes but also some of her coworkers, which makes me really nervous. I mean, it’s one thing to fail, but to embarrass my mom in front of her friends….let’s just say I better bring it on all or nothing like the love-child of Gabrielle Union and Hayden Panetierre.

I'm sorry I've been gone so long--I won't do it again.

L.Y.L.A.S!

--Blacktress

Now More Than Ever

Is how much I need to blog.

I just got back from round 1 of the dentist (remember how I have to put my teeth on layaway?) and my mouth is still numb. I can’t really talk, which you know is tantamount to oppression. I think the dentist gave me a bit too much novacaine, cause it’s over 3 hours later and I’m still feeling like Two-Faced. I guess I only have myself to blame, though—when he asked if I was allergic to anything, I said “just pain.” He’s a fun, Ken Jeong type of guy, so I can’t hate on him.

I am, however, hoping that my steady work even in the face of dental pain will be duly noted among my colleagues so that after my next long lunch, I can return with my head held high.

I’ve been slack in the blog world, mostly because I’m just a broke-down blacktress. And as my mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and no one will ever want to be your friend.” So, you know, I’m trying to zip my lip with the negativity. But I do want to draw your attention to some ch-ch-ch-changes:

CALENDAR OF UPCOMING SHOWS
So, it seems that the reason no one calls me is because they’re getting all the info on the internets. With that in mind, I’ve decided to do some cross-promotion on the blog. To the right (to the right, everything you own in the box to the right!) you’ll find a list of upcoming shows where I will be providing laughter to what I hope is an audience of likeminded freedom writers. You should totally come!

WRITERS STOPPED WRITIN’! :(
I had to remove a few names from my blogroll, folks. It’s not that I don’t love them, it’s that they don’t love the internet! Their blogs have ceased. I have, however, added a funny blog of random writings called Gutes Beispiel. You should read it. But not while you’re high—it’ll make your head explode.

A friend of mine recently left for a monthlong sojourn to Sweden and she came to the ultimate Sojourner for advice on navigating Caucasia. As someone who has been inside the belly of the beast and lived to tell, I was more than happy to impart some wisdom gleaned over several solo odysseys. Below is an excerpt from my email to her. Perhaps it will serve you well on your next international journey.

Caucasia Cheat Sheet

dictated but not read

Random "Facts":

• Swedes are kind, but curt. No dilly-dallying, no small talk in the shoppes--they'll say hi, they'll answer a question if you ask it, but they don't come up every 2 minutes, asking if you need help with stuff (which I LOVE).
• It's cold and dark--get up and at 'em early to do your thing before a tween vampire turns you into her lover.
• They don't really sell OTC things we're used to getting. So bring your Advil cold & sinus, cranberry supplements, and Nyquil.
• Sometimes the letter "K" is pronounced "Sh". So, you know, the signs advertising a "KOK" aren't as funny as we'd like them to be.
• There are no brown people, really. So fully expect to see:

White people with dreadlocks (guh)
People in blackface (not all the time, but, you know, it's not unheard of to attend a jungle-themed party and dress like "natives," including makeup.)

To make sure you don't end up in a pit of despair, I suggest bringing:

• A few of your favorite DVDs (or download to your comp)--maybe it was just Australia, but I had a hard time getting Netflix and Hulu out of the US, and even some YouTubes don't play when I was in Europe. Also, DVDs are coded by regions--a Swedish DVD won't play in your laptop. In those early days of jetlag and overwhelmed-ness, nothing takes the edge off like a couple seasons of Arrested Development.
• Cheat sheet of vocab words. It sounds silly, but having a list of foods really helped me when I was in Sweden, Paris, and Germany. Going to the grocery store or a restaurant, I didn't have such an intense breakdown because I knew which one was cake (kaka) and which one was pie (paj)--and I could order from a menu (many will be translated, though) without being scared a fish head would show up on my plate.
• I'd bring a towel, just so you have one that's yours. Of course, I always bring a washcloth, but being Caucasian yourself, perhaps that doesn't apply here.

Frightday!

Pop Quiz:
Which of the following things happened to a blacktress this week?
a. The intern hid the tin of Kit Kats from me yesterday afternoon because--and I fuckin' quote--“You were doing so well, eating an apple and all. I didn’t want to tempt you and you’d already had enough.”
b. I missed not one but TWO chances to showcase my skills to the NBC network’s head of talent diversity.
c. I received a phone call from someone telling me that, “Wednesday’s a big day. I’m coming out of the closet to the community… as a singer-songwriter.”
d. I discovered that the Duane Reade pharmacy cashier knows me by face. Clearly, I’m getting too many meds.
e. All of the above.


I’ve been feeling very un-gifted and black lately. Last night was particularly rough, as I performed in a Gaysian’s hilarious sketch version of “A Raisin in the Sun” as part of an NBC showcase. Of course, it's always fun to perform, but here I was as the best, brightest, and brownest in the comedy community were showcased, and I was serving as mere blackup in an Asian man’s production. Of course, he ended up winning the showcase, cause he’s hilar, but I had the biggest—or smallest?—pity party for myself last night. It involved cereal, staring at ice cream in the freezer, and watching 30 Rock. I had flashb(l)acks to middle school, as I realized how much I was out of the black kid loop yet again. I hadn't even known about the auditions, let alone the showcase, until the Gaysian asked me to reprise my role as the Ruth to his Walter Lee.

It was fun and all, but I couldn't help but feel like this precious baby animal (h/t Michael, the man who brought us Big Freedia):

This delicate, half-blind red seal has been shunned from his colony because of his color.
Look at him, standing on the rocky shore as his black brethren mix and mingle in the distance. I'm gonna send him a copy of this book:




I mean, look at these eyes. How can you not want to be his friend?

Hey guys! What's up?!

Oh, you like fish? I like it, too. Hahahhaa.

We have so much in common.

Can I come to the ocean depths with you?

Let's be friends?

Riding the Elevator in a Post-Racial America

Conversation on an Elevator

The time is 4 minutes ago. I'm on the elevator heading back up to my office after grabbing some organic fruits at Trader Joe's. It's me and a white-bearded Caucasian fellow who works on the 4th floor.

Me [on the phone with a friend]: All right, girl, I gotta get back up to the plantation. I'll see you Saturday. Bye! [I hang up.]

Man [smiling to himself, looking straight ahead. then, in a sing-song voice]: Pickin' some cotton, pickin some cotton'.

Me: Mmm-hmmm. Always toiling.

DING.

The elevator opens on 4.

Man: Have a good day.

He exits.

I have to find out what happens on the 4th floor.

Workplace Dynamics in a Post-Racial America

Guys, my boss won’t stop calling me “Ebony Beyond" and it's getting annoying.

Wait, have I not told you about this?

So, last week he was in a friendly mood and we were discussing drag names. [By “discussing,” I mean he was standing by my desk (cheating out, of course) but talking loudly enough that the whole office could hear him.] We went on a tangent about Bette Davis, during which I said, “If I was a drag queen, I’d totally be Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, all haggard and tragic and living in the past.” To this, massa replied, “No, your drag name would be Ebony Beyond,” before walking back down to his office.

(You know a former drag queen always knows to exit on a laugh line.)

It was funny at the time and maybe even amazing. I felt as though I’d been knighted, a la Judy Dench. We had a laugh about it the next day, and that was that.
Or so I thought.

Two days later, Massa began addressing me as “Ebony Beyond” in all email correspondence. At worst, it's a serious HR violation and I could sue the company for enough money to fund my dreams; at best, it's awkward. Here are some examples.* All of them have been copied and pasted directly, with no editing.:
I got to work (late) this morning and had this email waiting for me:
Hey Ebony---Do you have contact info handy for [so-and-so]?

[When I assured him I'd be able to get some information from an contributor, even though the contrib was being difficult, he gave the following reply.]
Ok---if anybody can reign ‘em in its Ebony Beyond Belief

And this one just takes the cake. The matter-of-factness with which he calls me Ebony and uses text-message language is just out of control.:
Ebony--- think we are covered—thanks though for jumping in. BTW are you thinking to revisit some of these artists in the subsequent issues—they seen deserving of additional coverage—esp the one you sent yesterday—omg hipster wc—who would have thunk it!

Um, did my massa write “omg” in business-related correspondence? I swear, this is the same one who will give you dagger eyes if you disagree with him in public. I feel like I work for Demi Lovato. I need to call up Obama at the UN and tell him what's going on--he'd have me sitting on a settlement in no time.

I guess I should be glad I have a nickname because it means I'm in massa's good graces. I got to work 2 hours late this morning because of a--you guessed it--doctor's appointment. I've been having back spasms and extreme pain that was so bad that I couldn't sleep at all on Monday night. And I don't mean "I didn't sleep at all" in a I-slept-but-tossed-and-turned-and-woke-up-a-few-times way. I mean I straight-up laid still on an incline and tried to stop the pain from shooting down my arm as I watched 1995 hit film Masterminds (Vincent Kartheiser's best work) and a portion of Terminator 3 (it just made my back hurt even more). It even hurt to lay down. Y'all, when it hurts to be lazy, you know something up!

At this morning's appointment I learned that my back muscles are so hard they're practically calcified. When the doctor touched my shoulders, she actually jumped back a bit and furrowed her brow, like she was in a scene from Aliens and a creature was gonna pop out. Good news: I got muscle relaxants. Bad news: I'll never leave the house again.

*I never thought I’d see the day when I’d search for “Ebony” in my Outlook inbox.

Friday Mash-up Post

Hey friends!

How are you going? Please excuse my lack of bloggery--trust me, it hurts me more than it hurts you. I'm all out of whack and speaking in Aussie slang because I have two gals from Sydneytown staying with me. It's kinda surreal to come home and find two people I haven't seen in more than 2 years getting dolled up in my bathroom. Although guests are stressful, these are two women I adore. One is the daughter of my Aussie mum, and her roommate, Prue, is my ex-wife. (We were facebook-married for quite a time, but being a real-life lesbian, Prue found our status to be a real clit-block.) Our love, however, never waned.

A shared love of Pink (the singer, not the Victoria's Secret clothing line), vodka-cokes, and karaoke led to many a long night on their balcony.

It was she who lent me the first book in the Twilight series. I am forever in her debt.

I'm so happy they're here, but you guys know how I need time to openly sob and eat ice cream in my underwear at the end of a long day. Having visitors means I'm in 24/7 stress-mode. I came home to find that they'd used the countertop sponge to wash the dishes and I had to say a serenity prayer. I had a dream last night that they didn't know how to turn off the stove and left the gas on and we almost died.

****THIS JUST IN: I GOT CALLED BACK FOR THE MICROSOFT COMMERCIAL!!!****

Did I mention that I'd auditioned for this last week? Well, anyway, yeah. I left feeling awkward and was supposed to have been notified by 9/12, but when I didn't hear back, I forgot about it. You can imagine my joy when Martin (my new favorite gay) called me up and told me that I'm going in on Tuesday!

*****BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOG POST****

I think I'm just really nervous about the showcase tonight cause my mom is coming. But I've been working on a new opener based on my African ancestry that's been getting some good responses. (I'm hoping the 30 Rock rep casts me as Toofer's sister who thinks he's as much of a blowhard as everyone else.)

I think I'm also being cray cray because I haven't had private time with Jewboo in over a week! Guys, I'm straight-up longing, 19th-century style. It's gotten to the point where I'm keeping a picture of us on my bedside table. Is he in Brooklyn or Afghanistan--either way, I am holding on to memories. It's hard when you're both working by day and trying to have dreams by night. Yesterday, all I ate was a probiotic yogurt and a trader joe's café latte in a can! I'm sitting at my desk, eating a lunch of grapes and....GRAPES! That's it, y'all.

Oh, before I go, I must share this inappropriately angry email I got from a reader of my magazine:

I must complain about the adhesive you use to attach mailing labels to the covers of ---- magazine. I subscribe to several magazines. All have labels which peel off easily and leave no residue. I tried pulling the labels off the Summer and Fall issues of ---- and was left with areas of a sticky substance which I could not remove. I tried removing the gum with rubber cement thinner which resulted only in removing the ink on the cover. I had to cut the corner off the issue to get rid of the gumminess. This, of course, was counterproductive as the reason for removing the label in the first place was to see the artwork in full. How about changing your technique so we all can enjoy the artwork.

Really, lady? Really? Our mailing-label technique???? How about you end sentences with the proper punctuation and go take your frustration out on the kids who never return your calls? Here's my drafted reply:

Dear [Judith Light],

I am very sorry to hear that you're having such trouble with our mailing labels. Perhaps you should purchase the magazine on the newsstands or not have an address. You seem like a scrappy, pugnacious woman who could fend for herself on the streets--maybe even become some sort of gang leader. I mean, rubber cement thinner for a mailing label? Judith, your talents are wasted on reading our magazine. I have attached a jpeg of the painting as it appeared on the cover--no corners cut at all!

Hope this helps. Thank you for your continued interest in our publication.

Best,

Sojourner

I would like to end this post with a little video--you know, cause it's Fri-day, Fri-day, Fri-ee-i-ee-i-day. How's about an awesome fake trailer?! Manic pixie dreamgirls drive me cray!

Blacktresses & The Blues

**I started writing this post on Friday. Today is Tuesday. That should give you a sense of where I'm at.**

Guys, I am so dead tired. Don’t you ever wake up and have one of those days where it’s like, “Yeah, I could totally kill myself right now and it wouldn’t even be a big deal.”?

No? Just me? Well, anyway, that’s where I’m at.

I hung out with my mom last night and, as always, it was a mixed bag—a dash of hope, humbling gratitude, a bit of self-loathing, gut-wrenching frustration, and a feeling of powerlessness that makes a gal eat bread pudding for breakfast—natch. We had dinner with my voice over coach and it was straight out of Waiting to Exhale. They got along swimmingly, which I’d expected, but also banded together to point out several of my shortcomings.

You know, like how I don’t “invest in myself.”
And how I “dress like someone who doesn’t care.”
And how I “don’t focus on what really matters”
Oh yeah—and how I need to purchase some really good wigs and hair pieces if I want to be seen as a professional on stage and in auditions.

I feel like a character in a Carson McCullers novel.

Of course, it always helps to keep it in perspective. After all, I could be little Paisley here:

When questioned, her mother didn’t really get all the hoopla. “Well, at this pageant there was an option to do celebrity-wear,” the mom said. “And we thought about what we could wear with her being a brunette, and Julia Roberts is my favorite actress of all time. I thought it was real cute to do Julia. She’s 3. If she was 10 I never would have considered this. But as young as she is I thought it was very comical.”

With that in mind, I’m trying to shake off mom’s words, but the timing couldn’t really be worse—this Sunday is round 1 of NBC’s StandUp for Diversity auditions, where oppressed comics can finally get their reparations.

Last year, I didn’t even make it past the first round.
I was beaten by an 11-year-old boy with braces and rubber bands who talked about putting vodka in his cereal.

Needless to say, I’m nervous. And I only have 60 seconds to prove myself. If I win them over, I get to go on to the second round, which allows me 2 whole minutes to bring the pain. If I pass that I get to be on the showcase the following night.

I know, I mustn’t count my chickens. But it could be fun.
If only I could find a way to be hilarious in 60 seconds and stop thinking about how my natural hair makes me look like, “Whoopi Goldberg, not caring, wearing a moo-moo.”

I'm gonna go get a pedicure and re-watch "Good Hair."

Blacktress out!

Seriously, Guys, Never Forget.

Today, 9/12/2011, marks the five-year anniversary of Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds.

In the interim, he has attempted to establish himself as a real actor, and although Alpha Dog was certainly no Crossroads, I'd like him to remember which side his bread is buttered...on.

After a true day of remembrance, we must NEVER FORGET that the man has one of the finest falsettos since Minnie Riperton and dance moves that put Bieber to shame.

Justin, lovin' you is easy cause YOU SING AND DANCE.

Look, Justin, I know the death of Michael Jackson must have been hard--it was a dark time for all of us. Perhaps you just felt like the pressure was really on once your idol was RIP. But you mustn't hide your rhythmic light under a bushel. You owe it to us to do what you're good at--singing and dancing.

Justin, you need to dance like EVERYBODY is watching. Because we are. We are watching and waiting for you to stop pretending you invented Napster. You brought sexy back but it went away again. FIND IT, JUSTIN. FIND IT AND BRING IT TO ME.

To strengthen my plea, I'd like to show a video released last week that I have been dying to post. Although it may seem like I'm behind the times, one of my friends featured in the video sent it to me the moment it hit the information superhighway. I wanted to wait until the day of remembrance to post it. If you haven't seen it, enjoy.

Justin, if you're reading and watching, please hear this humble plea. Don't hold it against them for using one black person for a nano-second. Their intentions are true.

You Can Find Me in Da (Country) Club

*******Breaking Blacktress News******

October 22, I’ll be heading to New Hampshire to do a show with 5 Funny Females--and I’ll be making more money than I’ll have to spend getting there!

I'll also have a 20-minute set--plenty of time to do my best blackting and comedic stylings. It's very exciting but also a touch nerve-wracking—the show is in New Hampshire, y’all. At a country club.

Yes, a country club.

You know a blacktress gets uneasy when traveling through the Caucasian countryside, but when I’m on a veritable Northern plantation—and so recently after the release of The Help, no less—it becomes even more touch and go. What if they force me to teach them what it means to really love, or how to sing with emotion? I immediately reached out to the other NYC comic who's booked, asking if we could carpool. She's from Boston and knows how to traverse these lands. (I've found that, when traveling into unknown parts of Caucasia, it helps to bring your own blondtourage to help with translation and such.)

The lineup includes a lesbian, an Asian woman, and a blacktress, so I’m not exactly expecting the RNC, but seeing as it’s at a country club and people are spending $55 for dinner and a show, I can’t really count my chickens.

I should probably keep a lid on the whole “gentrifying the vag” thing, though.

This is really good news after the start to a rough week. Tuesday I went to the dentist for a cleaning, only to find out that I have not one, not two, but four cavities!!! And this, after the hygienist tells me the cost of my cleaning and exam is double what they said it was (she got her facts wrong). WTF?!

I floss diligently—even in a blackout! (I’ve seen evidence of my strict oral hygiene the next morning, floss strewn about like yarn ravaged by kittens.) How did this happen?

I guess trying to dodge orthodontic bills by making my retainer out of Laffy Taffy wasn’t as smart as I thought.

The cavities themselves don’t stress me out as much as the cost of them. The doc says it’ll be $200 - $300 for each filling.
Remember how last week I was depressed about not being able to fund my dreams? Well, now, I can’t even fund my own oral health!

The only way I can swing this is to do one filling per month until I’m all done.
Y’all, I am basically putting my teeth on layaway!

Um, did I or did I not get a degree? Do I or do I not direct the editorial for a national magazine? (ok, it’s probably only read by 12 people, but still—you can find it in any bookstore that hasn’t gone bankrupt!)
HOW CAN I NOT AFFORD MY TEETH????

Add to this the bills from my near-terminal-illness, and I’m actually going to have to file Chapter 11. Or, like, Chapter 9—close to bankruptcy, but not quite.

Okay, I know I’m, like, 40 years behind, but what the hell is the point of insurance? I don’t think I should have to pay for any services unless they find and treat whatever it is ails me. I mean, if I get into your radioactive tube and you don’t find anything, then why should I give you half my paycheck? If I get in your radioactive tube and you find cancer or a tumor and can’t actually cure me, why should my surviving relatives pay you? I mean, clearly, you’ve failed them. It’s just like camping—why go outside and pretend to be poor? United Healthcare, why must I pay you for: (1) making me think I’m going to die; (2) accepting a doctor’s suggestion that she do a minimally invasive and simple test [that actually costs hundreds of dollars.]; (3) telling me that I’m actually in good health, or in a state that no one can really do anything about? It seems that I’m right where I left off, only with a damn neti pot and some supplements.

Ok, that’s enough from me. The money from this gig can go to half a filling!
How are you guys? Leave a comment with a word or phrase, and I’ll use it to write today’s sketch—seriously!

It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure blog!

Hey guys,

So, inspired by the one comment and several gchat messages, I have fleshed out the Chris Hansen sketch. I think it captures Hansen's essence--what do you think?

"A Lunch Date With Chris Hansen"

[NATE--a 40-something man who looks like a middle-school chemistry teacher in the 1980s--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. He sends a text on his phone and closes it.

A YOUNG FEMALE SERVER approaches. She wears her hair in a ponytail and is all smiles.]

Waitress: Hello, sir, how are you this afternoon? Can I get you anything to drink while you’re... waiting for someone?
Nate: Yes, I'm meeting a friend. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I by any chance interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [offstage]: I'll be right out! I just have to change first!
Nate: What?

[CHRIS HANSEN enters, in his signature button-down-and-blazer combo. He holds several sheets of paper in his hand. NATE rises to greet him.]

Nate: Hey Chris. Long time, no see, huh? [He leans in to give him a hug.]
Chris [stiff]: Hey there, good to see you.
Nate: Sit down, man--you're making me anxious. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes…I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, are you fucking serious?
Chris [reading in his wonderful staccato]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s around 1ish on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?

Nate: Um…that I wanted to get together.
Chris: So when I wrote back, "Great." what did you think I meant by that?
Nate: That it was great?
Chris: Did you or did you not just send me a text message moments ago, saying, "I'm starved. Are you stuck in traffic?"
Nate: Yes
Chris: Are you always this demanding with your lunch companions?
Nate: I wouldn't call it "demanding," but no, I'm not--
Chris: So, this is the first time? I find that a bit hard to believe.
[Nate says nothing.]
Chris: Did you know think you were communicating with a 14-year-old girl?
Nate: No! I have limited time for lunch, and I wanted to make sure we were on, that's all.

[Cut to CHRIS HANSEN IN THE 'DATELINE' STUDIO, surrounded by television screens. He looks at an unknown person.]

Chris: Here's this adult male...I mean, he's nearly 50 years old. And he's texting me. To "hurry up" when I haven’t seen him in six years. Six years. A chance encounter. At a reunion. And he's nagging me. As though he's entitled to me. That’s just inappropriate, any way you look at it.

[Cut back to the restaurant interior.]

Chris: one-ish.
Nate: Yeah--
Chris: one-ish.
Nate: Yes.
Chris: You will agree that "one-ish" was the predetermined time?
Nate: Yes.
Chris: You want to try again?
Nate: What? What do you mean, 'try again?' I said yes.
Chris: Well, I have the transcript right here.
Nate: Jesus Christ, Hansen! Chill out, you're off the clock!
Chris: This morning, at 9:07 am, I wrote, "I'll be running a bit late. Let's make it 1:30 just to be safe."
Nate: What are you talking about? I never got an email.
Chris: You sure?
Nate: Yes
Chris: You want to try again?

[Nate pulls out his smartphone, scrolling furiously through his email. He hands it to Chris Hansen.]

Nate: Look for yourself. Go ahead, check the trash folder. You didn't send it.

[Chris Hansen looks through the phone. He takes out his own phone and scrolls through it. He shows a flicker of embarrassment.]

Chris: It would seem that the message I thought I'd sent was actually simply a draft.

[Cut back to CHRIS HANSEN IN THE 'DATELINE' STUDIO, surrounded by television screens. He looks at an unknown person.]

Chris: Sometimes, you just can't catch 'em all. But we're not going to let that stop us at "Dateline."

National Sketch/Blog/Monologue Writing Month-- Or, as I like to call it, Time to Get It Together

Happy Tuesday!

God, isn’t it great when you don’t have to be on the plantation five whole days?

I don’t even know what to blog about. My head’s in a fog and I’m waiting for my coffee to take effect. I think what I’ll do is share some of my works in progress.

So, September is National Sketch Writing Month, which challenges the gifted-yet-unmotivated to write 30 sketches in 30 days. I’m not really a sketch writer, but I've decided to co-opt this idea in order to start writing that solo show I’ve been talking about—and get back on track with the blog posts.
Unfortunately, today is the 6th and I’ve only written one sketch, which doesn’t bode well for my attempts to live my dreams, but I’m not gonna give up yet!

Here are some of the ideas I’m working on. Let me know your thoughts. Whatever gets the most positive response will be tomorrow’s post.

The Sista Wife
Logline: Regine marries into a polygamist family and teaches her fellow sister wives how to be strong black women. (already in progress)

Sad Girl Goes to Prom
Logline: We see Sad Girl standing in front of her mirror, giving herself a pep talk before heading out to her high school prom without a date.

The Dead of Night
Logline: We see what would have happened to Bella Swan if she and Edward had broken up or if she’d just aged like a regular human.

MoveOn.org
Logline: A lone woman shows up to a MoveOn.org rally and gets the address wrong. No one’s there and she loses her mind. “Why does no one like me???”

Chris Hansen in His Daily Life
Logline: We see Chris Hansen meeting up with a friend for lunch. He shows up late and follows the same protocol as he would if he were catching a predator.

For example:
[Nate--40-something, kinda overweight White guy--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. A young female waiter approaches.]

Waitress: Hello. Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting?
Nate: Um, sure. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [off stage]: I'll be right out. I'm just going to change.
Nate: What?
[Chris Hansen enters.]
Nate: Hey Chris. [He rises to give Chris a hug.]
Chris [stiffens, not wanting to be touched.]: Hello. Are you ready to eat?
Nate: Sure—just gotta get the menus first. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes….I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, come on.
Chris [reading]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s at 1pm on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?
Nate: Um….that I wanted to get together.

And so on and so forth…

Hope you had a good weekend!

xoxo,

Blacktress!

What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

Strappin' in for the Weekend

Guys, there's a hurricane a-coming to New York City.
We had an earthquake about three days ago.
Um, WTF, End of Days? Can you please not come until I've had a chance to live my dreams?

I hope it's just a thunderstorm, and not the dramatic hurricane their expecting. I mean, her name is Irene, for goodness sake--nothing named Irene should be dangerous.

[Imagine me as a 55-year-old secretary when you read this next sentence.] Besides, the only hurricane I want is Denzel! [insert a pursing of the lips and a snap.]

As I prepare to tuck in for what's sure to be "THE STORM OF THE CENTURY," I realize how useless I am in an emergency. I mean, this is nothing new, but it became even more apparent after visiting the VT and then reading The Hunger Games this week. But now, in the face of a real situation of the non-Jersey variety, I realize I'm as useless as a taco in a toolkit.^

According to NY1 News, I need to pack a "go bag". All I know about "go bags" are that the FBI agents on Criminal Minds always have one ready before boarding the plane to the next serial-killer case.
I don't have a gun or badge, so what would my go bad contain besides underwear and a safety condom?

As I try to write a grocery list of edible foods I won't have to cook or refrigerate*, I hear the wise words of my 95-year-old G-Unit, said before what was certain to be the Y2K meltdown:

In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo ass.

Let me give a bit of context:
Grandma has an entire linen closet filled with toilet paper--except on the floor of the closet, where she has jugs of water.
When I asked her why she had all this, she replied matter-of-factly with, "Thems my rations."

Okay.

Water, I get. But all that tp? Unless you're some sort of macGuyver, you really won't need that many thin squares of tissue during an apocalypse.

Unless you're G-Unit.

Maybe I should go load up on Charmin--I mean, the woman has lasted 95 years on this earth, so she must know something. (Plus, those cartoon bears are so cute!). What about Smart Water? I mean, if the world's going to turn into Thunderdome, I want whatever the ageless Jennifer Aniston's been drinking. That one's got the hips of a 14-year-old Korean gymnast!

Ugh, I wish I was Katniss Everdeen. I'm gonna try to make a shiv out of a plastic spoon in the next hour.

I need survival skills. Is there a way to do, like, a SIMS version of Outward Bound?

^I've decided to try on the character of elderly southern farmer. This is one of my new folksy sayings.

*so far, all I got is:

• Wheat Thins
• apples
• dry cereal
• English muffins
• tea (not a food)
• chips and salsa?
• fruit leather
• peanut butter
• craisins

My Soulmate?

Hey gang,

So, I was in war-torn Borders last night, picking up some cheap going-out-of-business books, and as I'm checking the humor section, this guy walks behind me and all I hear is the word 'gorgeous.'
I assume he's talking about the sale, cause it really is exciting.
I look up but he's already walked past me. I go back to my book, and he doubles back. "Excuse me,” he says in his indoor voice. “I'm looking for a nice soulmate. My name is Rob, I've been divorced a few years—“
“I'm in a relationship,” I cut him off.

He wasn’t hideous or visibly homeless—black guy, a couple inches shorter than me, bald but working it—but he definitely had crazy eyes (almost Bradley Cooper-esque) that tipped me off to mental illness. Add to that the fact that he called me gorgeous, when I looked about as busted as a sister wife. In fact, I was looking like a divorced sister wife—you know, what I mean. She's got her 6 kids and no “sisters” to help her, so she's really let herself go. Plus, the last time she was on a date, head-to-toe denim was a good look, so even on her best day she's still looking awkward.

I digress.

“Oh, you’re in a relationship right now?” CrazyEyes says, pointing to the floor. He then looks around, as though my partner--if he exists--would be in Borders at that very moment.
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay, I’m sorry.” He walks away, probably to troll the going-out-of-business sale for more “nice soulmates” at 50% off.


I tell this story not just because I love to share interactions with randoms but also because it was the first time I didn’t have to lie to a crazy to make him go away. My fake boyfriend, Michael, is no longer necessary—and he might be gone for good! (I think I’ll kill him in a freak ATV accident—you know, cause he’s such an adrenaline junkie.)


Jewboo and I did very well on our first road trip. By “very well,” I mean we didn’t fight with each other, explained our wants and needs (such as “food. Right. Now.”) clearly and succinctly, and my friends liked him. He drove the entire way there and back (which I found very attractive for some reason) and we both discovered that we prefer to hold our bladders than stop repeatedly.


****[oh my god, we just had an earthquake in New York City. My office swayed, and massa was conveniently out getting cupcakes and “didn’t feel a thing.” I started a twitter tree, and judging by the pithy replies, everyone’s fine. Guys, what if this blog becomes a record of humanity in the 21st century????? I owe it to the world. I owe it to the Mayans. I owe it to us.]********

The wedding was loverly and it was so great to see friends. However, I seemed to have forgotten about my inherent distaste for small-town living--i.e. life in Vermont. For a place I’ve visited more than a handful of times, it really is the polar opposite of everything I stand for.

Take, for instance, the fact that we arrived in the state at 9pm on Friday night, and there were hardly any restaurants open. We get to the hotel at 9:45, only to discover that restaurant-kitchens across the state are closing, including the hotel dining room. I’m sorry, but WTF, VT?! I know you guys are "quaint" and sparsely populated, but a blacktress and a ‘boo can’t get a good meal after sunset on a weekend?! The state needs to change it’s damn motto:



As we're driving up I look over the info from the bride and remember that a VT wedding also doubles as a camping trip. Regarding the pre-wedding BBQ at a gorgeous state park, she writes:

“Limited parking is available at the top of the mountain, so you can park at the bottom and carpool up, or it’s a nice one-hour hike to the top.”

A what? Nice one hour hike? Is that Swedish for "refreshing hot bath"? I texted some friends immediately:
You better save me a parking space on the mountain top or get me a ski lift, cause a hike ain't happening!

I would have had Jewboo playing sherpa after about 10 feet.

You guys know how I don’t like to sweat in public or be in nature, right?

Well, just imagine me at an outdoor wedding at the height of the summer sun. Just walking from the car has me starting to sweat like Whitney, and after sitting down for about 5 minutes, I have to pull my dress out from under my butt because I’m getting serious swamp ass and I’ll kill myself if I stand up and discover a giant sweat stain in my crotchal region. When the B&G proceed to share their written vows, I start crying, and Jewboo leans over and wipes my tears…or sweat…it was really at the point where it all mingled and I was generally salty.

But the sun went down after a couple of hours and in the meantime, I got really excited about the mushroom-and-truffle brick oven pizza being passed around, and it definitely took the edge off. I will say this about Vermonters--they sure know how to throw a wedding. I think it's because they're such a handy people. I was seated next to a fella by the name of Bruce, who had a weird look in his eye and a wet spot on his pants, and I asked him what he did.

"Do you live off of the land?" I asked.

"Well, yes, I do. I build furniture from the trees right from our forests."

Guys, if the apocalypse goes down, I think Vermont's going to be the only US city that makes it.

The highlight of the wedding was definitely the couple's first dance, which was unlike anything I've ever seen. It was, in essence, a flash mob. Kool & The Gang's hit "Celebration" came on and half the guests started doing a choreographed dance!

I had no idea what was going on as folks danced around me. I felt like Julia Stiles did the first time she went into that black club in Save the Last Dance.

Turns out the b&g had set this up via secret YouTube video. Although I wasn't in on it ("It was a hard choice to make," she said, "but I decided that I wanted you to be surprised."), I was able to get my hands on the instructional video made by the bride. I also got her permission to post this on the blog. Her exact words were:

"No, it's okay. I've never been more proud of anything in my life."

And I'd have to agree.

See for yourself, friends. From the seriousness and dramatic pauses in her delivery to the names for the various dance moves--not to mention the cameo by their dog--this might actually be the most amazing YouTube clip I've ever seen. Yes, even better than the Pumpkin Dance.

I love this woman almost as much as I love my Jewboo. I would gladly drive another 7 hours just to see her dance.

Vermont is for Lovers

Hey friends!

I’m banging my head against the wall with this article for massa, so I decided I’d switch to blog mode. The artist I’m writing about isn’t weird or crazy or unskilled, so I don’t know why this is so hard. In fact, he’s a silver fox who gets my humor and actually used the word “shit-tastic” in an email, which makes him my new favorite person. I just can’t get a lead-in, and without a running start, it’s just a dragging, lagging article. Plus, I’m only half here because I slept about 5 hours and am going out of town tomorrow—to a wedding!

Jewboo and I are heading up to Vermont to witness the nuptials of one of my favorite ladies. I’m really nervous-excited (nerv-cited? excitervous?)—it’s our first road trip, Jewboo’s driving my mom’s car, and he’ll be meeting a bunch of college friends. We did great in Minnesota, so I’m not worried about the friends-meeting part or spending 6 hours in a car together, but the driving….to Vermont… in madukes’s car. What if my map-dyslexia flares up and we get lost and he hates me? What if I get diarrhea? What if one of us farts in the car when the windows are up????

I am very excited for the nuptials, though. It’s not going to be another German-Indian dual-ceremony at an inter-faith cultural center, but you only get one of those a lifetime. The bride-to-be and I really took our love-friendship to the next level post-college, with the advent of this blog (specifically “16 & Pregnant” posts) and collaboration on a bachelorette party. She was really good about making me feel like less of a failure throughout the whole thing, and her scrappy, Vermonter, can-do attitude really came in handy on a rainy, late-night drive during which I thought we’d end up inspiring the next Saw movie.* She’s the kinda gal you’d want to get stuck in an elevator—or a sinking car, or a tornado, or a zombie apocalypse—with. Besides, it’s always great to watch white people come together. I feel like their numbers are dwindling.

Overall, I’m excited to get outta the city, breathe in some country air (and then develop a hacking cough as my body rejects it), and spend 48 hours with my Jewboo.
Yes, this pleases me. It’s hard being in an LDR, Brooklyn-to-Harlem style!

Of course, I’ll give you a wedding recap when I return. I think that after the wedding goes off without a hitch and everyone’s happy, I can write about my experiences being in nature without being misconstrued as hateful.


* Not sure which is scarier—inspiring it or being alive to see the release of a 6th Saw film.

A Treatise Inspired by Adam Carolla

Okay, let me say this: I have never liked Adam Carolla. I find his nasal voice to be annoying and even when he was giving “sex advice” on MTV’s Loveline he sounded cocky and dismissive. That being said, perhaps he isn’t a bad comedian. Although he’s damn near 50 years old, he’s got a teenaged-frat-boy sense of humor that appeals to many….teenaged frat boys.

However, his recent homophobic, anti-trans (and anti-Asian?) tirade on his podcast The Adam Carolla Show —one of the most downloaded podcasts in the country—has confirmed every negative assumption I’ve ever made about theman

Have a listen:


Okay, it’s gross, we know. It’s also par for the Carolla course, it seems. What makes me so angry about it is his “apology”—issued via Twitter, no less. Because after all, why would you need more than 140 characters to say sorry about something you’re not actually sorry about?
“I’m sorry my comments were hurtful. That being said, I’m a comedian, not a politician.”

Now, as you may know, the blacktress has also come under fire for comments made via blog and on stage. I have been misinterpreted in some instances and in others, it simply hurt the listener to hear my dramatized/performance-level anger and/or musings. Both of these are par for the course in comedy and any other form of public expression. You cannot control how someone’s brain transforms information. And, thanks to the internet, you can’t control how someone receives information.

But that doesn’t mean that comedians aren’t accountable. When a comic responds to criticism with the phrase “it’s just a joke,” or “I’m not a politician,” it implies that there’s no intention behind his or her words. And honestly, any comic who has actually worked to achieve a certain level of success/public recognition has spent years going through shitty open mics; has spent their days reading—or writing—books titled Truth in Comedy and The Comedy Bible and Comedy Writing Secrets; and making national recognition a life goal. In short: every word he writes or says in a comedic context isn’t “just a joke”. If you want to be a joke-maker, then perhaps you shouldn’t address issues of same-sex marriage, equal rights for people of all creed, religion, or gender on a public platform.

Point the third: There is a difference between a rant (Carolla’s tirade) and a bit (a comedian’s crafted joke on a particular topic). Of course, talking off the cuff/not in the context of a stand-up set or sketch, not everything is going to have beats, patterns, word play, or LOL moments. But a bit is a routine on a given topic. It takes an idea and mines it in a way that is humorous.
A rant is “speaking or shouting at length in a loud of impassioned way.”
That’s what Carolla did--in this case, about the LGBTQ community as a whole.

Yes, there can be ranting bits—Carlin and the like—but it’s usually the way they process and explain their rage (i.e.their unique and offbeat thinking”) that provides humor.
Carolla just went off.
And, constitutionally, he’s allowed to do so. But did he really have to spend 7 minutes on it?

Guys, this is coming from a self-proclaimed mad blacktress. I have definitely utilized the guise of Sojourner to say things that people didn’t like to hear. And of course, there is truth in comedy, and although there is dramatization for effect or performance, there is a true root sometimes. But does he really have to use being a “comedian” as a pass to be a total bigot?

Oh yeah, and regarding this whole “comedian” thing—his rant wasn’t remotely funny, so he seems to have failed on that end, too.

What say you?