Taxicab Confessions/ A (Street) Car Service Named Desire

Hey gang,

I’m sitting in on a 2-hour conference call, which is as good a time to blog as any. Apparently Monday's post was a bit morose, so I am here to make amends. Although nothing much has happened in the last 20 hours, I completely forgot to tell you about my most recent cab ride, which was wonderfully inappropriate:

It was Saturday night at about midnight. I was coming from Jewboo’s house in the depths of Greenpoint, and I was quite emotional. I was tired, pissed off, and even had a bit of a cry on the steps when I was waiting for the car to arrive. I just wanted to get home and sleep so that the annoying night would be over. Because I’m in broke-ass Greenpoint, I can’t just go out and hail a cab—I have to call a car service. It started off easily enough, as I hop in and tell him to take me to a train station in downtown Manhattan (economy is rough, y’all, gotta watch the wallet!). He asks me where I’m ultimately headed, and then offers to take me to to my home in Harlem for a rather low fee. My spirits perk up as I totally pull a Blanche Dubois.
As I’m texting a friend to pass the time, the cab driver starts chatting me up.

RandoCabDriver: How was your night?
Me: It was okay.
RCD: Did you have some drinks?
Me: No.
RCD [turning on the radio]: Do you watch cricket?
Me: No?
RCD: No, you don’t?! It’s the world championships.
Me: Who’s playing?
RCD: My country, Sri Lanka. We will win, I feel it.
Me: That’s good.
RCD: You going to your boyfriend’s house?
Me: No [note the use of one-word answers—which I hope will let him know I’m not trying to talk].
RCD: You don’t have boyfriend?
Me: I’m going home. [note my attempt at changing the subject]
RCD: You have some drinks tonight?
Me: No [Why does he keep asking me this? I start to wonder if he’s projecting just as he starts speeding down the highway.]
RCD: I like you. You are very innocent.
Me: I am? [clearly years of cab driving hasn’t taught him how to read people].
RCD: I can take you out?
Me: What? [when faced with a question that should never be asked, I’ve found it’s best to feign stupidity.]
RCD: I cook you dinner. I am a very good cook.
Me: Really? [I don’t know what else to say. Notice I did not reply to his invitation.]
RCD: yes, yes, I am very good. What kind of food you like to eat? You eat meat?
Me: Yes
RCD: You eat chicken? You eat lamb? You like lentils?
Me: I like chicken.
RCD: I make very good chicken. Last night I make a delicious rooster.
Me: Oh! [from watching Criminal Minds and "To Catch a Predator", I’ve learned that when faced with a potentially dangerous delusional person, it’s best to agree with them and return their interest—within reason—so as to ensure one’s safety. How did homey go from chicken to rooster?]
RCD: Yes, yes. I went to a farm, and I got it fresh. You like that, huh?
Me: Uh….
RCD: We have some rooster, we have some white wine.
[He’s really getting into this non-existent date. I keep looking up at the street signs to make sure we’re still headed in the direction of my home.]
Me: I don’t like white wine.
RCD [sighs]: Okay, okay. You can have red.
Me: Um…thanks
RCD: I like you. You are very sweet. I know you are very pure.
[Does he think I’m a virgin? I laugh lightly.]
RCD: You fight with your boyfriend?
Me: No.
[Why do I believe that lying will make this easier?]
RCD: I never fight.
Me: Except with roosters! [I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood]
RCD [suddenly sharp]: No! I don’t fight them. I cook them!
Me: Okay.
[We get within five blocks of my crib. I can now spend the rest of the ride giving him directions. I pay him the agreed upon fee and open the door.]
RCD [in a sing-song voice]: Good night Pure and Beautiful. You sure you don't want some rooster and white wine?
Me: No thanks!
RCD: You are so nice, thank you, good night!

He drives off. I’m left outside my door, wishing I could be as pure as he wanted.

Back to BCB--And More

So, I've received many emails and gchats regarding my new guiding light, BCB. Seeing as every day she teaches me something new (and I'm hoping we will soon watch the film "Something New"), I must elaborate on this woman.

So, last night, the friend I was supposed to meet up with was a Kellog's Frosted flake and never called. Luckily, BCB took me under her wing and invited me along to a local pub to meet some her mates. BCB is a fashion stylist, and needless to say is always looking fierce--even when she throws on, like, a $5 top and some Converse Chucks. She even manages to find EMPLOYED musicians, which is seriously like finding a needle in a haystack for the blacktress.

Anyway, I sit down to dinner and dranks with her 2 lesbian women from Perth (the most remote city on earth--Wiki that shit)--it was like United Colors of Benetton meets the L Word. One is a hilarious Asian lesbian (a hotter, cooler Margaret Cho) and and her homegirl is a mysterious South Asian woman(let's call her Parminder Nagra, just for reference), and we end up talking about going to Arrows-- a sex party for women somewhere in the nearby gayborhood.

These chicks are stone-cold sober, and yet somehow we end up discussing Vs, Ps, and that time Margaret Cho tried to kiss BCB--you know, cause everyone else was making out and she didn't want her to be left out.
I think we all know that scenario all too well.

On the way back to BCB's house, she pointed out a brothel nestled among the quiet homes on the street. I guess it wasn't exactly undercover, seeing as a random beefy dude was sitting outside, and just as we walked by, a man exited, as a tiny Asian woman in a bra said, "Thank you, good night!"
From my vantage point, I could see that the walls were red.
Note to self: if you need a red light special, roll Sydney-side, cause this place is Lefty Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all! Just brothels on residential streets, men rolling through like it ain't no thang.

Oh, speaking of Loosey Goosey, I saw THE AUSTRALIAN last Friday.
I know, I know, I'm keeping secrets from you, gentle readers.

I'd been on the fence about seeing the fool, but in a moment of weakness/loneliness, I texted him my Aussie number. I soon after fortified myself, but he kept texting, and I figured it was best to get it over with.
He met up with me Friday, as he walked up, I was pleased to see that he'd gotten a little chubs, for, as you know, nothign helps ease the pain of scorn like seeing the man you wanted to marry looking bloated and knowing he's single.
We drove around the city, seeing the sights under the cloak of night (so, of course, I have no clue where anything he showed me actually is). We talked for a while, and it was mostly silly. I realized he possesses one of my least favorite traits in a human being--over-confidence. He just thinks he's the jam and the jump-off, when really he's a self-righteous hot mess who's not all that bright.

I'm over him, I swear. The bitterness is just residual.

As our drive wound down, we reached a crossroads--literally. We were at an intersection that could take us to my hostel or to his apartment. He goes, "Okay, I'm just gonna put it out there--do you want to go back to my place?"
I thought for a second, which felt like forever. I mean, his bed would probably be comfortable. There'd be no Swedes to wake me up at 7am. I wouldn't be doing anything I hadn't already done.

But I wasn't even trying to go down that road. I did not come all the way to Sydney to get into some old drama! I came to get into some NEW drama! Besides, does this fool really think a couple of litres of petrol (god, how Ozzie am I now?) are gonna get me to drop my panties?! In the words of Whitney: Hell to the NO!

Unfortunately, it seems that the Ozzies aren't really as down with the brown as I'd hoped--unless you count the girl who was standing next to me in SES (a clothing store in the mall). I was waiting to go the fitting room and she was passing by me and stops, RUBS THE BACK OF MY HAND, and says, "Oh, look at your beautiful skin!"

For serious, y'all. This chick touched me. I was 'bout ready to cut her.

Or, what about the Ozzie guy in the pub that I went to with United Colors of Benetton? I was ordering my bev, and he leans over and goes, "Your hair is quite nice," leering like the OVER 50-year-old that he was. I just gave a light smile and tried to will the bartender over to me as fast as possible. I gave him my order and as I waited, the old guy goes, "The rest of you is quite nice, too."
EW.
EW.
EW.

I grabbed my drank and ran back upstairs.
Lefty-Lucy, Loosey Goosey, y'all!!!

London Calling, Pt. 2

I am currently in Spain, sitting in the oficina of my step-aunt and uncle. If this post contains several typos, I apologize in advance; i am having problemas with this keyboard.

anyway, i got in to spain at noon yesterday, and hadn´t slept since friday night-- and even that sleep was questionable. It was a whirlwind three days, involving meeting relatives I didn´t know I had (an unearthing daddy drama), going on a "magical pub discovery adventure" with a friend who hadn´t seen in 2.5 years, and getting crunked on the streets of LDN. Things I´ve learned:
- Brits don´t think it´s funny when you´re walking through the tube/subway station and start singing "America, Fuck Yeah! Coming again to save the muthafuckin´day, yeah!"
- Chips means "french fries." And, funny enough, actual potato chips are called ¨crisps."
- The customer is never right. The sassy attitude of the English server makes no apologies for f-ing up your order.
- You can not go walking around Notting Hill asking strangers where you can find Julia Roberts.
- The English lad epitomizes the word "strapping"-- you will never get osteoporosis on this side of the pond.
- The next time Brits start talking about fat Americans, remind them about the English breakfast: beans, toast, eggs, bacon AND sausage, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms. Seriously, all as on meal.
- I am indeed not black enough. When meeting my Nigerian relatives, the question of my "African side" was raised, as it was a bit upsetting to them that I interact with the white Other and had no Nigerian pals. If only they knew about my romantic life.....

I'm SPRUNG, y'all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

NOW YOU PLAY!!!!

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

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


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




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



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



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


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