An Older, Bloggier Blacktress

I’m typing this post while waiting for the Time Warner Cable employee to come back from putting me on hold. That’s how long we’ve been doing this. I mean, I’m cool with it. It’s gotten so ridiculous that when he asked if he could put me on hold, I told him to “grab a sammie, drop the kids off at the pool, whatever. We’re really just hanging out at this point.”

So, I think my birthday can be best summed up by this ecard from my mom:

You and me both, girl.

I must say, I'm glad the birthday is over--Although I did have a tender evening with Jewboo, complete with cupcakes and compromise. We’re thinking Brooklyn for a year or so and then back to Harlem once it’s all renovated and fit for a new couple to make a life. See, I figure once the lines are clearly drawn—and mounted in the form of walls—the lines between mom and I will be equally clear and strong.
I don’t know if that made sense, but I think you feel me.

Ugh, I haven’t posted in so long, I don’t even know where to begin. There’s been so much to discuss. I guess I’ll stick to highlights:

• My boss keeps referring to everything as “gay-cute” and it’s getting weird. He’s constantly brainstorming new ideas and starts with, “you know what would be really gay-cute? If we had, like, a ‘best of’ section.’ What?

• He’s also taken to calling me “Black Barbie” whenever I wear a ponytail. Of course, in glasses and a ponytail, I think I look like the nerdy girl before the makeover in every 80s movie. Massa then explained, “No! Do you know what the most coveted Barbie is? Black Barbie, no bangs. She’s, like, $5,000.” Apparently, I am a high-end lady.

Of course, I’ll take any excuse to post the “Black Barbie” music video:

• I don’t know if you guys know this already, but I have a wife. Her name is Meara and she is wonderful. She recently scored free tickets to previews of Lysistrata Jones on Broadway and invited a blacktress. We’d heard negative reviews of the show, but that didn’t stop our excitement of being in the fourth row of the orchestra. Once it got underway, we realized that everyone we know who has opinions is wrong. The show was really, really funny. Like, actual funny and not comedy-of-manners type of funny.

It was a bit too cartoony and self-referential at times, but the actors had great comedic timing in addition to all their NYU BFA training.
Oh yeah, and everyone was really, really attractive. There was a lot of sexuality. Basically, by the end, the show made me wanna do 500 crunches and make out with a girl.
Favorite line: “Oh my god / it’s a sexual jihad.”
Of course, it was made better by the fact that it was sung by a rotund black woman (a show can have no gravitas without one).

There was even a relationship between a strong black woman and a nerdy Jewish boy!!!
Guys, the blacktress’ story is on Broadway.
The show was irreverent (best critic word ever) and ridiculous. I do think, though, that it can be hard for theatah enthusiasts to see something so sassy, sexy, and silly going for $100 a seat (and perhaps if I’d paid for it, I’d be singing a different tune). But it’s also just nice to see something original and sharp that has memorable songs and great performances. Plus, there was a hot Asian and tons of interracial love.

And here's a new soon-to-be series-- Gchat Quote of the Day!

Litsa: My mother has suggested an officiant who is a gay Jew who also was a cross-dresser when I was a child.

Should I be offended?

Best. Moment. EVER.

I would like you to all know that I am now facebook friends with David Elmore Smith, from TLC's "The 650-pound Virgin."

Sweet god, YES!!!

For those of you dying to know, David's current status is: "going to take a cat nap, then do some cardio."

I think if David can accept my friend request, people I've hooked up with have no excuse.

I am one step closer to co-hosting a show with him on Bravo. It'll be like "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" meets "Biggest Loser" meets Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing. Oh my god, I can imagine our love affair. He's 32 years old and 6'2", which basically meets all my criteria. (um, is that sad?) He's also been morbidly obese, so he's learned to be nice, cause when you grow up hot, you take people's adoration for granted (so I hear). He's also had extensive plastic surgery, which shows he understands that looks are almost everything, which I respect.

But for serious, guys, you know how much I admire his extensive weight loss without the aid of surgery. And you KNOW how much I love a tall glass of awkward milk! I can just see us now, with our baby Baracks, making low-fat dinners and drinking just one glass of wine, before going to the beaudoir to keep practicing.......teehee. I'm a hot mess.

For this new development, I'd like to thank my friend Litsa, who often leads me on the path to righteousness (see Friday Night Amstel Lights for more on this). At 1:30am last night, she revealed the lasting effect my blog post on David has had on her, and showed me the fruits of her internet stalking. His MySpace page left little to be desired, but this led to the F-book page, which I decided sorely lacked a thumbnail photo of me as his friend. OF COURSE Litsa suggested I send him a message and add him as a friend, and OF COURSE I did as I was told.

Much to my delight, I awoke this morning to find the following message in my inbox:
David Elmore Smith has confirmed you as a friend on Facebook.

Now that I've got that in my inbox, I just need to get him in my box--if you know what I mean.

By "in my box" I mean, "his penis in my vagina."

Flavor of Love: Season 3

8 days left in this Black History Month, guys. We’ve gotta make it count. So far, Barack’s doing his part as a halfie to make sure our 40 acres didn’t go to waste, but other than that, it’s a poor Negro showing this month. I blame this primarily on the premiere of Season 3 of Flavor of Love—aka, Season 3 of “Why Negroes Can’t Have Nice Things—and Why Sojourner Can’t Find a Can-Do Black Husband."

Now, I think you all know my thoughts of Flava Flav—he’s a human cockroach with a gold retainer.

Yeah, I said it.

And, just like a cockroach, he never stops spawning. And he will never become extinct.
Now, like rapper T-Pain, I believe that Flav served his purpose back in his rap days. With Public Enemy, the young Flav gave ugly men hope, and proved that money CAN buy love—a theory which a young Patrick Dempsey tested shortly after the first Public Enemy album was released in 1987. See for yourself:

You never thought Demspey and Flav had a connection, did you?

Flavor of Love: Season 3, debuted on February 11, 2008—smack dab in the middle of the month of negrosity. Now, Flav—or his handlers who sign his checks and make sure the baby-mammas get a cut—must have known people would pick up on this. At the very least, he should have anticipated the blacktress’ wrath.

I’ve been trying to avoid this show since it began, not only due to Flav’s blinding hideousness, but because nothing makes me sadder than unintelligent black women yelling, arguing, and pulling out weaves over nothing. I mean, I didn’t fight for freedom so these chicks could act a damn fool!

While eating China Place at Litsa’s last night, we had no choice by to stare at the giant image of Flav on her flat screen. Luckily, it was episode 1, where the sluts get their nicknames for the duration of the show.

Sidebar: Historically in African cultures, babies are named by a powerful figure in the community or family shortly after birth. The name is often meaningful, determined not before the child’s birth, but after. It involves a communication with a higher power, where the child’s destiny and identity are determined. The name is meant to act, in a way, as a prophecy.

On Flavor of Love and I Love New York, a slut appears in a mansion—primarily for free food, drink, and the chance to go from appearing in pornography on public access television to pay-cable—and is given a name that is easy to remember, touches on some trivial aspect of his/her/hir’s personality, and is often misspelled.

As the woman stood in line and waited to be named, Flav announced that this season he would do something different: The women would name themselves!!!
Who said pimps up, hos down? Not this time around! The women approached flav one by one, and explained why they should be named. One girl called herself “Bunz”—yes, with a ‘z’—because of her large posterior. Two identical twins (in bad need of pilates and orthodontia, if you really want to know) said they were “Sugar” and “Spice,” because that’s all a man could need.

As trite as this was, Flav was not satisfied with these monikers. In this instance, he decided to name them himself, giving them titles that were meaningful to him.
“My favorite book when I was little was Cat in the Hat,” he explained to the scary-looking ladies. “And my favorite characters were those little bad monsters—Thing 1 and Thing 2. So I’m call y’all Thing 1 and Thing 2.”

I kid you not.






We’ve come a long way, Negroes!!!

The women laughed, which is all one could really do in such a situation. Unless you’re me, and you stare at the TV with your mouth open and a lone tear in your eye.

As everyone gets acclimated and the women take their turns trying to woo flav, one woman shows herself as the next New York—her name is SHY, precisely because she is not shy at all. Two at a time bond with Flav, and the rest of the women are left to drink and intimidate each other, and Shy wastes no time.

One large white woman, nicknamed Peeches (yes, PEEches), is immediately attacked. Shy asks her why she’s here, and Peeches says she “wants to be his queen.” (um, really? Ew.)
Shy then gets louder and louder, screaming, “Are you ready to do what you gotta do? Do you want 10 babies? ARE YOU READY TO HAVE HIS 10 BABIES?!” She then begins pointing to her nether regions as she says each syllable, just in case Peeches doesn’t know where babies come from.

She's not shy at all. And she wants to be the new New York.

Once she makes herself clear, she begins to say, “See, me, 24-healthy, fit”—she flexes her bicep at this moment—“I’m all ready. Are YOU ready?!”

Okay, now, the last thing anyone should be trying to do is procreate with Flav. He is clearly genetically inferior, from his oral hygiene to his stature to his balding (though he tries to wear real jacked up cornrows). There is no reason why having his babies would be a good idea—we’re trying to LIFT UP the black race!! Listen, I’m only having kids if I know they’ll be in The Talented Tenth. I’m not popping out babies just keep some steady income. I mean, how do you think I’ve lived so long since the abolition of slavery? Cause I ain’t givin’ it away!!!

These women should also keep in mind that Flav already has about 8 children (like I said, cockroaches reproduce rapidly), and, like, 7 baby-mammas. And this is the THIRD SEASON of the show—his track record ain’t so great.

I honestly don’t get why these women don’t have higher aspirations than mating with an unattractive man. I mean, the only one who is showing her true colors is the white girl—who wanted to be called “Vanilla,” but instead he calls her ICE. Ice admits that she’s a budding radio personality, and is most likely on the show to earn some sort of “Street Cred.”

It’s a sad world when the only person clever enough on Flavor of Love is the white girl.

Okay, readers, I could go on, but I would probably end up crying, or nauseous.

Happy February 21st!!!!!!!!!

2007: A Blacktress Looks Back

Hello there gentle readers,

Welcome to 2008! As you can see, we are not as far along as we should be as a people. To my dismay, I awoke in Brooklyn on the 1st day of 2008 and stepped outside to see NO flying cars, and discovered that I hadn’t become an omnipotent robot. I expected way more from us this far along in the aughts (this is what we call the first decade. Yeah, look it up. The blacktress teaches).
Oh yeah, and there’s still oppression everywhere.

As we look to this new year, and as the decade draws to a close, I would like to share some of the lessons I have learned this long, hard year. Perhaps you, too, will gain something from my strife. After all, what good is the struggle if you can’t help someone out?

Sometimes, the only lesson to be learned from something is to not do it again.
Yeah, I said it. I’m so done with all these people telling me that “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger” (yeah, Kanye, I’m talking to you). I don’t think that’s true. Sometimes rough shit happens and it just sucks. And when it’s all said and done, you learn not to go down that road again. In the words of the wise musician Rick, “Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you wanted.” Yes, true that.

Don’t Buy Him A Drank (Shawty TRIPPIN’!)
Did I ever tell you about the hot mess I met back in November? We locked eyes at the Bourgie Pig (my jam and my jump-off), and, inspired by T-Pain and my liberal need to shirk the gender binary, I decided to buy HIM a drank. I was nervous as the waiter walked over with his beer (that’s what dudes drank, right?). I was pleasantly surprised when he came over and started chatting and then asked for my number. I had high hopes for this 30-year-old IT guy with the bald head and stubble I’ve come to realize is my type.

I was sorely let down when my interactions with Dave became a series of late-night text messages that amounted to nothing. He fell off the face of the earth in the month of December, citing “too much schoolwork” (um, I’m not impressed! Even ancient man knew to holla at a cavewoman after chasing mastadons). I clearly kicked him to the curb—one of the many lessons learned this year—and decided he was dead to me, much like Michael Jackson and Boyz II Men (where are you????).

You can imagine my shock when I received a text message from him at 2 AM this past Friday night!!! I believe the exact words were: “Wadd up…2 am winter spoon?”

No that fool did NOT use my words to woo me! And no he didn’t think he could call me up at 2am like I’m some common woman and expect his needs to be met. That is just like a damn white man to lose his good-goddamn mind and think he can play. I said I was a blacktress—NOT a wack-tress!

White People Have Too Much Money, and it Makes Them Stupid
Yeah, I said it. The paparazzi have shown us what Biggie was saying all along: Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems. From crazy Britney (Tears for Spears, ’08—courtesy Leila Estes!!!) to that Wicked Leona Helmsley, clearly, when white folks get money, they go a little nuts. The green makes them a hot mess, and they don’t know what to do with themselves. Leaving a damn dog money?! Shaving your head, showing your bare vajayjay, and getting into more baby mama drama than a Jerry Springer guest?! I mean, come on, people!

Get an Office Wife and an Office Husband—Preferably Gay-- and the Plantation Will Be Less Oppressive.
My first full-fledged non-temporary office job has taught me that there really is no such thing as sexual harassment if your coworkers like you. I mean, my tender office wife brings nothing but good cheer and laughter, even when I say things that don’t make sense. AND she’s even into Jesus and finds my offensive humor hilARious! Getting an office wife turns the mundane task of sitting at a desk into your very own slumber party, complete with giggling, snacks, and pillow fights (with rulers instead of pillows). Today’s gem from wifey proves it. When discussing our resolutions to eat healthier (I’m on Fatkins, not Atkins), she said to me, “Girl, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. You can eat whatever you want. I think if you trace back to your ancestry, you’ll find you were, like, a cougar in the Egyptian wilderness.”
AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!! Wifey is sooo cray! God bless her.
(We’re both probably getting fired soon.)

Gchat IS LIFE.
I don’t think anything could have gotten through this sedentary year of 9-to-5’in’ quite like Gmail and its chatting capabilities. It’s like I can talk to people for 8 hours straight and make money at the same time. I’m never out of the gossip loop, I’ve got youtube links coming out of my arse, and every puny thought that runs through my brain can be shared with 12 people in an instant. I mean, how did the world exist before the interweb? What, people interacted face to face? What about ugly people? I think not.

Everyone Needs A Litsa.
Seriously, she came into my life in the summer like a heat wave—only without the sticky sweat or bad smell. She warmed my heart and soul, and I wouldn’t have survived the blackout of 2007 if it wasn’t for her ability to keep a sober head while nearly blind-drunk. She is my Harlem girl with lesbian dogs, who has hosted me, fed me, given me her bed (in more ways than one), and acted as a sex-cellent partner in crime. Unfortunately for me, her winter spoon has returned, so she’s gone all domestic, but discovering this tame side has only made me appreciate her more. Without our daily gchats, her distrust of unattractive people, and her love of yellowtail Shiraz, I don’t know how I would have made it into 2008.

Foreign Men Are Evil.
Ugh, George Bush would be too proud to hear me say this (lord knows he wouldn’t be able to read it). However, I cannot let that stop me from speaking my truth. I have learned that from Australia to Astoria, from Greece to London, these fools have as many emotional barriers as language barriers, and treat each kiss like another stamp on their passport: makes for a great story, but ain’t nothing much besides that. Like the long transcontinental flights on which they embark, they arrive on our shores with excess baggage, ready to unload on the first brown woman they see. They will leave you with nothing besides a broken heart, a confused mind, perhaps a Facebook friendship, and a fur shrug. You have been warned. Enter the foreign man’s hostel at your own risk.

Everything is Better With Gay Men.
This past year I have made many important friendships, many of which were with gay men. Some of whom I knew in previous years, our love strengthened and deepened with the dawning of the spring and the sunshine of the summer. I spent many lazy afternoons sitting in Central Park with the Boys, ogling shirtless hotties and drinking white trash sangria. We laughed, we cried, we developed blogs and I developed crushes. I’m prepared to lend my womb, heart, and soul to these men as our lives continue forward. I must name the best of the best, just so they know who they are:
Mr. Casey: you taught me about politics, life, and laughter…and I love your mom.
Vince Vaughn: I think you know who you are. You are the counterpart to Mr. Casey, and by far the most surprising love affair I’ve had this year. You make me wanna be a strong black woman.
JJS iii: Your Photoshop is too bootylicious for me, your rhymes are like whoa, and you support my love of HP. Without your support, this blacktress blog would not exist. You may be involved with a D-list, but you’re A-list to me!
Nick Cearley: Sweet god in heaven, you are it. If I had to be trapped in a closet, I hope it would be with you…and some showtunes. Billy Jean may not be your lover, but I think I am!
Tumbles: You cartwheeled your way into my heart, and being fellow Sagittarians, I knew our bond would deepen. We should go on more dates where other people come along.
Ronnie: I have a crush on you. There, I said it. Imagine how hot our mixie would be.
Jeff Hiller: Our love has only just begun. You are my brother from another mother, and I can’t wait to improvise with you.
Katie Walsh: You are a 35-year-old gay man trapped in a woman’s body. You publicly relate to my soul.

Artists and Serious Art Hobbyists Are Cray.
Since working at this art magazine, I have come in contact with more weirdos than I do on NYC transit. Apparently, acrylic painters are oppressed, anything in life can be cured with plasticize board, and “artists are lower than whale shit.” It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to answer my phone.

I LOVE NEW YORK….WHEN SHE COONS IT UP.
I’ve given her way too much blog time to not acknowledge the force New York has been in my life. She’s a sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania (aka, Utica, NY—not even the city, y’all!), and she has about as much class as a kid at summer camp, I know. But she entertains me. She makes me feel better about myself, and reminds me why black people can’t have nice things sometimes. She is currently boo-ed up with Tailor Made—aka GEORGE WEISGERBER. Um, I don’t know about y’all, but I would die of happiness if New York came to introduce herself as Mrs. Weisgerber. Can. You. Imagine like John Lennon?!
When it comes to New York, I have one word for you: TOOKEN.

Anyone Can Be A Strong Black Woman!
I know this statement may seem shocking and bold, but I hold it to be the TRUTH. As I have shared stories with my ladies and my fellas, I’ve found that strength, courage, and wisdom rest not only with India.Arie. Clearly White in their own right, Karisa, Katie, Litsa, and even Edith Zimmerman have shown themselves to also be strong black women. With their heads held high, their pockets fat like Tony Soprano, and their chinchillas, they can handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Everyone Comes Into Your Life For A Reason—Or A Season.
As you know, much of my bloggery has been devoted to the quest for a “winter spoon.” But most of the people I have met (electronically and organically) have not been worth their weight in gold dubloons. I have kissed frogs, dogs, and stayed in shit way too long just for the idea of what I wanted. I have learned that I need to let that go. Besides, this global warming may work in my favor, as half the season has been warm enough to forgo spooning altogether. I am done dealing with fools and consoling myself with the thought that they’ll at least make a good blog post. It is time to stand up as the strong black woman I am and stop cleaning up after other people’s hot messes.

That is all dear Reader. If you have made it this far along, I thank you for supporting Sojourner yet again. Look forward to a year of truth, justice, and the African-American way.

How Much Do I Really Hate New York?

Dear Massa—I mean, Reader,

Let me be the first to apologize for my lack of bloggery as of late. I know it is my duty—nay, god-given right—to put my thoughts on the page as only a blacktress can. However, I’ve found that since the beginning of my 47th year I haven’t had the time to sit down and collect my thoughts. Things have been cray. In fact, one could even say I’m the captain of the S.S. Cray-Cray.

Firstly, I am suffering from serious black mama drama. It is time Sojourner faced her own TRUTH and find her own apt. I cannot let the co-op board (aka THE MAN) slow me down, and I must accept that my current situation is similar to the plantations from which I fled, shouting “Ain’t I a Woman?!” I cannot take steps back at this age. I must move onward and upward, and once again seek out the freedom I’ve longed for.

As for the quest for the winter spoon: it is over. Mission aborted. Like the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, my heart has been bombed into bits by unpleasant “romantic situations”—the Imperial Japanese Navy of evil men (thought none of them were Japanese). All I have for comfort now is I Love New York. Watching this show reminds me that, even on my worse day, at least I have a functioning brain, the ability to tell right from wrong, and no STDs (I took my test—I passed!).

New York is down to the wire, with only two men to choose from: Tailor Made and Buddha. Now, I personally am glad to see Punk go, as he needed to stop slumming and living this lie and do something with his Harvard education (it’s his kind of behavior that stops Negroes from having nice things).
I mean, the moment Punk’s mother came into the house I knew that was the end of him. Look at her:

First of all, why is his mother 112 years old? And why is she hideous? I was shocked by this turn—TV doesn’t get any more real than this.

I believe my favorite response to Punk’s mom came from a viewer who wrote to Yahoo:
She looks really frail and her mannerisms remind me of my some of the stroke victims I worked with at the hospital. Her mouth is always open and her glasses are so thick. She also doesn't make eye contact.

This would have to be true. As New York screamed and tripped, and as Sister Patterson waved her weave about and stabbed out the Entertainer’s eyes with her fake nails, Punk’s mother sat stoically, possibly passing a stone, looking bewildered and mildly frightened…. Then again, her wide eyes could just look that way because of her large bifocals.

I know it's wrong to take pleasure from the misfortunes of others. But I can't help it. With Massa-Mama breathing down my neck, my va-jay-jay confused and lonely, and the housing market rougher than a back alley in Detroit, I seek solace wherever I can find it.

Judge not lest ye be judged.

SoundZ Like FUN!

So, I am trying to regain my blacktress-blogger work ethic by providing more than one post a week. I blame the fact that I haven’t posted on yet another discovery in my life:The bar/club Soundz.

Yes, that’s with a ‘z’. Located on Broadway, between 124^th and 125^th streets, I like to think Soundz is singlehandedly responsible for the Harlem Renaissance of the new millennium—aka Gentrification in the 21^st Century.

Oh, sidebar: Don’t you hate when you’re talking to someone and get the words ‘genocide’ and ‘gentrification’ confused?

Anyway, back to Soundz. I first attended with Litsa (obvi) and the uni-testicular failure who will go unnamed. I wanted to prove my pimp hand was strong, so I offered to buy them drinks. I ordered a beer, a wine, and a cocktail, and the total was…. 12 DOLLARS!!!

Thank god someone’s keeping liquor accessible to the black community—and Columbia students! $12 for 3 drinks. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I would have to say that ends up being $4 per drink—on a Friday night! Holla at a broke playa!

We sidle up the bar, where we talk to the bartender—a grad student who pours drinks heartily and with affection. Once on the plush red velveteen couches, we are socially attacked by Aziz and Amir, two brown men who clearly lack social skills—and no, it’s not cause they’re brown! Aziz was wearing a wedding band on his right hand and tried to front like he wasn’t married; and Amir told me my hat was sexy.

Um, it’s wasn’t lace. My breast wasn’t popping out of it. There’s nothing sexy about Banana Republic knitwear. Besides, I was clearly all up on another man who I would soon discover had one testicle—clearly, I wasn’t Amir’s for the taking.

My next voyage to SoundZ was last Wednesday, and it was me, Litsa, and several middle aged black men. Now, I should mention that Soundz is under the train tracks—which would explain why it attracts such rif raf. Litsa and I told the bartender about how we plan to make a documentary about this location, with it’s red light special-lighting, unnecessary velvet rope outside (no one’s clamoring to get in), and patrons who eat Chinese food and McDonald’s from neighboring establishments. I’m also hoping to turn it into some sort of dating game, in which the winning contestants receive an all-expenses-paid trip to the bathroom, where magic happens and babies are made!

I HATE NEW YORK

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of a post in nearly two weeks. Things have been dark and rough for Sojourner, as the brisk fall air has rapidly turned to bone-crushing winter windiness, and I’m losing my will to go out and about. I’ve been in a bit of a stalemate, as the co-op board continues to oppress me. I had my meeting with them on Nov. 1, and have still heard nothing! Did we hook up at a party after a drunken night of debauchery? Have they been talking to Mr. Whiteley? Why are they avoiding me?!

I just want a place to live that’s not a cardboard box! Is that too much to ask? I’m just a woman of color and a writer, trying to stop the gentrification of Harlem by living and working and growing. LET ME LIVE!

I digress. This is not why I post today, gentle readers. Last night, I received a call from actor, comedian, genius Nick Cearley. It went something like this.

Sojo: Hello, Mr. Cearley. To what do I owe this honor?

Nick: Well, Sojourner, you haven’t blogged in a while, and I was worried. I called to check up on you.

Sojo: Oh, Massa Cearley, you see into my soul! It’s just been so rough out here for a blacktress and I’ve just shut down.

Nick: We need the truth, Sojourner.

Sojo: I will give it to you, Massa. The truth, the whole truth, and NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

The massa has spoken. I must blog. I must preach it. I have a potential winter spoon in the works, but seeing as he’s not foreign, crazy, or offensive, I’m going to try to create good karma and not talk about our weekend of magic. Instead, I will discuss the latest thing to rock my world: I LOVE NEW YORK.

Okay, I know I’m about two years behind with this reference, but it has only recently become a part of my life, and I have no idea how I haven’t ranted about this tramp before.

New York is single-handedly setting back the black women’s movement by 75 years. With her fake breasts—looking like two goiters—and her mangling of the English language, I am unclear on why exactly these men are vying for her affection. The episode I had the pleasure of seeing (at Litsa’s house, after having a delicious breakfast of Chinese food), involved the signing of a blood oath—or, as New York called it, a “blood OAF”—which required the men profess their love for New York, as well as present her with an object that was valuable to them.

The most touching object came from Punk, a large black man who attended Harvard law school and is an up-and-coming attorney. He has a terrible jerry curl, size DD man-breasts, and arms like ham hocks. But, looks aside, he is the smartest and most mentally sound man on the show. Why in the name of the Lord is he on reality television? To show his love for New York, he brings his deceased father’s wristwatch, and tells a touching story of how important it was to his father that he become a lawyer. New York was moved, as he pricked his finger and placed a bloody fingerprint on his oaf. (Is any of this really sanitary? I wonder, as I digest MSG and am fondled by Litsa’s lesbian dogs)

The most ridiculous object was from a man who I call… Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (I forget his real moniker). He slurs incessantly and has no concept of reality, and covers his head in gypsy-style rags—though he has no hair to speak of. He approached the altar and displays the following:

“This is a wallet my grandmuva had got in Egypt—cause she travels a lot and that’s important to me. And then there’s this ring my fava had gave to my muva. She wore it for her driving test and she failed the first time, then she wore it again and she had passed.”

Um… What?!

Instead of bringing something valuable, Fetal decided to bring two useless things. There is nothing special about a ring that your mom wore on two occasions, resulting in totally different outcomes. And, like, did his “Grandmuva” do something in Egypt? Did she at least bring back a baby Zahara or something? Why am I impressed?

Needless to say, Fetal did not sign the blood oaf and was voted off the show.

Instead, New York decides to bring back Buddha, a man who she felt was wrongly kicked off the show. “The opportunity to find true love was tooken from me,” she explained over a meal at a fancy restaurant (where her bright purple bra poked out of the top and back of her dress).

TOOKEN?

Um... I struggled to learn to read, repeatedly risked beating and death, hiding pamphlets and alphabet blocks from my masssas, only for this damn fool to say TOOKEN!

She is a disgrace to my hard work and triumph. And she insults the hard work I put in to find a winter spoon when she has a bevy of men to choose from (granted, they are mostly crazy, mildly retarded with Asperberger’s and herpes—but still).

This is a pic from a different episode, but this is the SAME BRA that was peeking out during the fancy dinner, during which she said "tooken"

Let Me Tell You aSTORIa... About a Greek Man...

The Greek is over.

Cue strings.

After only 5 "dates," Zeus is out of the picture. I know that in Greek mythology gods can't "die," but Apollo is dead... to me. Yes, folks-- Poseidon has drowned, Hermes has run out of frequent flier miles, Ajax can no longer clean stains.

Friday night, Ambrosia and I headed to Queens for some.... one on one time. It was time to act on the tension.

Apparently it was also time for me to act impressed! Turns out Achilles' weakness isn't his heel-- if you know what I mean (and I think you do....*). I'd been anticipating tenderness and hotness, but it was rushed and lukewarm at best. I should also mention that Zeus had a tank of geckos in his bedroom.

I don't like to be watched, especially by animals peddling car insurance.

After a fitful night's sleep (apparently, they don't have indoor heating in Queens), I woke up and Zeus and I cuddled. I wondered when I was going to get my morning post-coital omelette. Instead, Odysseus excitededly told me he had a present for me and went to the closet.

What could it be? A key to his kingdom in Kalamata (yes, like the olives)?! A toga made of pure silk? A life-size drawing of my sleeping nude ebony figure?

It was a black fur shrug purchased at a thrift store.

I kid you not.

I'm not good at hiding my emotions (see previous posts, re: TRUTH), so forcing a smile was difficult. "Is this for me?" I asked, hoping he'd think my shock was born out of excitement. I'm clearly a much better blacktress than I thought, because he excitedly removed it from the hanger and told me to try it on.

"I thought it would look nice because of the black on black and the soft fur," he explained. He also admitted that he had purchased it for me after our second date.

I wanted to tell him it was a black on black crime, and he should be ashamed of his damn self for even looking at-- let alone purchasing-- such an abomination. But I didn't, cause it's the thought that counts.

The question is-- what was he thinking?!

As we headed out of the house (hopefully to get food, though this had yet to be determined), my dear sweet Litsa called, seeking blacktress council. I chatted with her for a while, then got off the phone so as not to be rude to Oedipus (this is a fitting name, as he recently told me he calls his mother 'little whore'-- WHAT?!). I filled him in on our chat, just to make him feel included and share some tenderness-- big mistake.

This ended up sparking a whole tirade on the "trivialities of people's lives," and how I shouldn't even offer advice because people will do what they want to do.

Zeus has no soul. And he won't feed me. And he requires extensive travel for lackluster love. And he doesn't have a cell phone.

There are geckos in his room.

He bought me a black fur shrug.

Need I say more?

Time to erase, replace, embrace a new face! Help-- only 4 weeks til Thanksgiving, and I wanna be thankful for a good man!

*it's his penis. Apparently those statues aren't out of proportion after all! (yes, I went there!)

A Conversation Among Heteros

Litsa: Where did he meet his boyfriend?

Me: At a bar.

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




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

Friday Night (Amstel) Lights

So I woke up at 10 am Saturday morning.

In a bed that wasn't mine own.

And I wasn't wearing any pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did we kill a man just to watch him die?

I have no idea what the hell went on.

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

Um..... help?

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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.