The Chosen People Have Chosen Me!!!

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

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

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

YOU CANNOT SAY

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

YOU CAN SAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt like Rihanna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must find my way in.

How are you?

Give Me a CRAY to Build a Dream On…

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

NB: {RF} denotes a Red Flag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

#DreamsDeferred

On an Up-Note:

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