Monday Funday!

Hey there, Zachs and Kellys!

Today is Monday/Cheap Easter Candy Day! and although I've been at my desk since 8:15, I am still too slow in the brainhole to come up with witty bloggery. In the place of Sojourner's truths, I'd like to provide you with some humorous internet videos that speak to me in many ways. For the first, I must thank bounce music lover Michael Gottwald. Like me, Michael is a goy who loves Jews, and he has found a video that best encapsulates the lengths we'll go to for a Hebrew National:

Love the Ethiopian-Jew cameo.

The video below encapsulates everything that's hilarious about Caucasia, Will Ferrell, and race relations. Oh, and of course, the drunk comedian is great (who hasn't laid down on the couch on the verge of a blackout and said 'my legs are showing.'?) In my mind, Zooey Deschanel has never been less annoying! See for yourself what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real... drunk:

Mmmkay....it's 9:11am and no one else is here. Is today a holiday that I don't know about? Maybe I'm being punked.

Mondays With Artists / National Treasure 3: Horses, Flowers, and People

It’s back, guys!!!!

When my mother shamed me into thinking I was a talentless whore (I won't go into it), I ended up taking down my Mondays With Artists posts, but I will no longer hide my light under a bushel! I just got a letter in the mail—complete with Polaroids—that was too good to keep to myself.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have the honor of knowing [An Old Lady Name]. Her gifts deserve worldwide recognition. I think an article on her would be a great human story. Here’s a bit on her life and work. I’d bet you’ll agree she is one very interesting gal.

[Okay, we go from referring to her as an ‘honor to know’ then get all folksy and warm, saying she’s a ‘gal’…I’m not sure what to make of this.]

A treasure, a living, breathing, treasure…how else to describe a woman who has lived a inspiring life for 76 years.
[Because there’s no question mark at the end, I assume this is not up for debate.]

As a youngster, she was clearly out of the box. She resorted to drastic measures to defy a school system that couldn’t respect her gifts, such as putting red dots on her face to feign chicken pox. Her candid portraits of people and horses and flowers are distinctive*.
[* Isn’t that a word you use when something is ugly, but you want to be nice?]

To my mind she is a national treasure, a strong independent, dutiful artist, doing her art of living for anyone lucky enough to know her to witness.

[I don’t know what to make of this last sentence.]

Guys, when I’m old and random and talking about my glory days, will you write to Comedy Central and tell them that I’m a treasure? A living, breathing, national treasure?

BlacktressFail

Guh.
It’s Monday.

Every night I tell myself to shake off the previous day, and resolve to go into work fresh, relaxed, and free. I promise to focus on my responsibilities, telling myself that the day will go faster if I just keep my head down and get it done. I vow to let go of the anger I feel toward my coworker who I’m convinced is planning total domination of this magazine (why else would he, at 26 years old, be so anal retentive and condescending? He’s clearly trying to show his dominance so that when he becomes the next EIC, no one’s the wiser.)

And yet here I am, 2.5 hours into the day, and I’m already asking for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

I’m still reeling from the tragedy that was Friday’s callback. I was awkward as all get-out, and just didn’t know how to loosen up. I’ve vowed to chalk it up to a learning experience, but I just don’t know—I mean, how many times can I suck/”learn and get used to the process” (as my optimistic friends say) before they just stop calling me in for auditions? This isn’t some community theater production of Our Town—this is television, people! TV, the medium-sized screen! The place with commercial breaks and the highest stakes! The place where the only people with my skin tone are in Tyler Perry productions! As I stood in the elevator crying, I thought about “A League of Their Own”—you know, when the coach says “THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!!!!”
There is no crying in callbacks. If I keep this up, I’ll end up more dehydrated than an African orphan. I’ve gotta man up.

I felt slightly better after consoling myself with Pinkberry, but my return to the office was met with hours of work that apparently only I could do. This isn’t even possible. World-domination-coworker–Code name: Buzzkill—is really weird sometimes. Like, he’ll be quick to point out every mistake you make, but won’t really take initiative on something if it interferes with his lunch time. He regularly spends the hour at his desk watching Internet videos, and will shut out any and all responsibilities during that time. If that’s the case, go sit your ass in the Barnes & Noble up the street.

I began today with an awesome email from a reader regarding some typos in the latest issue of the magazine I’m in charge of. She writes:
I have only reached page 31 and am ready to toss this month’s issue through the window. Either you only use spellcheck or English is your second language. What am I going to find as I keep reading? Shame on you!

Awesome. Good morning.
Apparently my lack of investment is starting to show in the finished product. So, in summation: I’m shitty at my job and shitty at blackting.

To maintain the will to live, I keep reading the reply I got from the Gotham booker in response to my thank-you email. It keeps me going strong:

Very nice to meet you as well. Glad you found the notes helpful. I think you have tremendous potential. Keep writing and performing. You can make it in this business. Will keep you in mind for anything you'd be good for at the club.

This makes me feel a lot better about eating 4 pieces of cinnamon raisin toast for breakfast.

Just Another Manic Monday

Good lord, I am so behind on bloggery. Last week was straight-up cray cray, with the overseer from our Colorado office in two for two days, the news that my favorite coworker (well, his kids and wife are my favorites--you know, the ones I've babysat for in Queens) is being transferred to Colorado, and that a staff member who'd been on deck 31 years was "dismissed, effective immediately," for no substantive reason.

I could barely get a blog in edgewise, and the next thing you know, it's August 23!

So, for those of you who missed it, my television debut was 20 seconds of pure magic. They indeed used the part where I called Matthew McConaughey a sexy rotisserie chicken.
I don't know what's worse--that I also cupped my breasts for emphasis on national television, or that the Jewboo's parents also watched this.

Speaking of Jewboo, we had dinner with his parents on Friday, and his mother is revealing herself to be quite the strong black woman. Not only does she always have her nails did (red tips), but she's a teacher who has no tolerance for foolishness! Jewboo actually left me alone with them for 40 minutes when he had to skidaddle post-dinner for his show.
Suddenly, I became terrified of being super awkward and saying something inappropriate like, "I've planned my wedding to your son. Do you need me to convert?"
Luckily, I kept it cool and PG, and they mostly just asked me why he's FUNemployed.
They even asked me if I wanted to come over for Yom Kippur to break the fast with them--they are totally making me a member of the tribe. Unfortch, that's a crazy time at work and there's no way massa will let me off the plantation--even if it is on a Friday.

What I like about them is that they are super welcoming, and although they are older members of Caucasia, they don't say things like, "I didn't think you'd be black because you didn't sound black over the phone!"
Which is what was said to me BY AN ARTIST I INTERVIEWED LAST WEEK.
Yes, child! In 2010!
And what's the real kicker is that he's all about painting brown people and doing social-realist work. He even used to illustrate books for African-American authors. And homey had the nerve to sit next to me and basically tell me that he didn't think I was black because I sounded educated.

I swear, if we weren't in a shitty economy, I'd be out of here. Fortunately, momma didn't raise no fool, so I know to keep my bitterness to myself--unlike a certain scientist who works at UC Berkeley.
Dr. Tyrone Hayes (no relation to singer Isaac) was called out for sending a series of angry, misspelled emails to employees at Syngenta, a chemical company that manufactures atrazine. He's been against the use of atrazine (an herbacide used by corn growers) for years, but there's no change in legislation and use. So, finally fed up, he decided to take his beef to the streets--via email, the way all scientist thugs do. Featuring quotes from various rap songs, these emails really "sounded black"--so those Syngenta scrubs knew who they were messing with. Dr. Hayes' PhD must be a Playa-hating degree!!

First of all, look at this man's hair:

I can't handle this truth!!! He needs to at least deep condition his jam if he's gonna let it all out like that!

Then he sends the following emails (just two of many many more):
On Feb. 13, 2009, he says:

aww shucks … I’m bouta’ handle my biz right now
see you bucked…wondering…”what it is right now?”
ya outa’ luck…bouta show you how it is right now

see you’re ****ed (i didn’t pull out) and ya fulla my j*z right now!

In another from 2008, Hayes writes (apparently in response to a public statement from a Syngenta spokesman):

tell your little lap dog to wear knee pads next time and wipe the *** from
his mouth before he steps up to the mic.

"Steps up to the mic"? Are they in some sort of rap battle? Is Syngenta aware of this? I highly doubt it.

You can read all the emails he sent here. He quotes the greats, you guys--Luda (my mom's fave), Tupac, and HIS OWN FATHER (Romeo Hayes).

Thanks to his antics, black folks won't be getting PhDs at Berkeley for a good three years!
WHO ON EARTH QUOTES RAP LYRICS ABOUT HIS JIZ???

Who’s Got Two Thumbs and a Case of the Mondays??

THIS GIRL!

I am hating on my job, y’all, for serious. I know that I’m lucky to be employed in a recession, but let me have my Monday rant, mmmkay?

When it comes to New Massa, the bloom has faded from the rose, as they say. Like Ian McKellen in “The Da Vinci Code,” he started off nice and enthusiastic, quick to teach me about Leonardo and offer me refuge. However, just as quickly, he turned on me, ready to shoot me in a church and poison me.
(if you haven’t seen “The Da Vinci Code,” then this makes no sense at all. Apologies).

New Massa is a high maintenance older gay—you know, the kind who don’t have patience for your shit because they came up in a time when they weren’t even allowed to love openly? He’s an “I pulled myself up by my bootstraps to become an upper-echelon intellectual at a time when I’d be called gay just for buying oil paints.” So, you know, he doesn’t have time for your, “I’m sick, I have to go home” bullshit. Or your, “it’s 5:30pm, I am done here” exodus. He also has no concept that other people could have things to do, and whatever pops into his head has to be done right away. Oh, and he also likes to schmooze out on the town, promise artists feature articles and things, and then leave us lovely editors to do the writing.

Of course, writing is my job. I enjoy it. That’s what makes this bearable. But when he wants me to spend my time going to events “just to make contact,” that infringes on my personal time. When he wants me to spend all day in Long Island at a workshop when I don’t even have the staff camera to take photos, that means I’ve got to make up that day’s worth of office work—when, exactly? On a weekend? Oh, in the words of Whitney, HELL TO THE NO!

You must keep in mind people: my dream is humor writing and blackting. I am a blacktress. But momma didn’t raise no fool, and it’s about having bennies and some income coming in! So, I work. I pay my bills—and it takes some of the pressure and insanity off the creative process. But let’s not get it twisted—I’m not here for the love of the linen canvas. I’m not in it for the watercolors. This is my job—not my career.

A career is a responsibility that combines interests you have and skills you possess. In exchange for providing your skills and sharing your interest, you are given monetary compensation, opportunity for growth, and steadily increase in your skills and responsibilities.

A job is something you get to pay for your addictions! (you know, like shopping at Crumbs cupcakes) They do not pay me to care. I’m just here to pay for my HPV vaccine and therapy sessions, boo!

Quite frankly, I’m looking for a damn job that pays me more than I paid in college tuition! There is no reason I should leave one of the “top liberal arts universities in the country” with a shitload of debt and the inability to go to the movies without rearranging the finances. Blacktress is trying to break even—is that too much to ask?!

So, here it is, nearly noon on Monday, and I’ve already been at my desk 5 hours, and I’m trying to make sense of an article that is so annoyingly dry and pretentious—and I can only expect to do more of this, as this is the “new editorial voice” New Massa wants to go in. And tomorrow, I”ll be the only person to leave my desk before 5:30, because I have a 6 o’clock call time for a show I’m in. It’ll be blasphemous because, my god, shouldn’t I love art enough to want to stay here all day and into the night? As New Massa said when I went into his office to discuss this last week (I didn’t make it about him, but about “Artists sudden demands on my time”) he said two things that got me:
“Well, it comes down to putting in the hours,” and “It should, of course, be fun. It’s not meant to be painful.”
Well, sir, it is NOT fun—at least, not doing so regularly. And, unfortunately, I have other goals that prevent me from putting in the hours to a job that doesn’t pay overtime.

So, there you have it. Monday rants. How was your weekend, guys?