Back From the Rapture

Hey Guys,

How was your rapture? Mine was so-so. That Thursday Stony Point 40-minute gig I was so excited about got canceled on Tuesday, sending me into a shame/FML spiral of unprecedented proportions. I feel like I am not only doomed to be writing about paintings of fruit in bowls for the rest of my life, but I’ve let you down, my gentle readers—especially Dave, who was kind enough to do a little Wiki-ing for me.

This weekend was an emotional rollercoaster, starting off with a fight with the massa at 3:30pm on Friday. It was definitely a Roots moment, with me refusing to go by the name Toby and him refusing to let it go—metaphorically speaking, of course. I should have known better than to give a former drag queen “the hand” (my attempt at getting a word in edgewise), but we all make our beds and have to lay in them. I found myself completely wrecked until 8pm the next day, when I headed off to do a set at a show in Queens.

I was actually quite nervous beforehand, for a couple of reasons. First of all, it was in someone’s apartment (which we all know can be a hot mess) and every single audience member could be seen plain as day. As any performer knows, the ability to see the audience rolling their eyes, checking their phones, or simply bored or confused can shake even the most professional blacktress or WHactress. Of course, once Sojo takes the stage, most audiences snap right to attention, but the crowd was also unknown, and I had no idea what they were into. I walked in to a sea of Caucasians, many of whom were heavily tattooed. Was I in Stony Point after all? I wondered. I’d been invited by one of the organizers, who’d seen me do a set at Broadway Comedy Club almost two months ago. It was a hellish bringer show, with about 14 comics doing 6-minute sets—speed-dating the audience, basically—and only 5 were actually good.

As I made my way through Queens trying to find his apartment, I started to feel a pinch of fear. Maybe it was the fact that I was standing under the train tracks and a highway unsure of which direction I was supposed to walk in. Or maybe I was just having flashbacks to the crazy Greek man with the small gyro who told me I was a “tiny baby child.” Or maybe it was that that I was going to the apartment of three rando White boys I didn’t know. Nah, that’s nothing new—it was that this guy was an established comedian and I felt like I had to prove that I was good or something. Add to that my hatred of my job and possibility of being fired, and I needed this set to be great.

I got there shortly after 9 and sat in the “green room”—AKA one of guy’s bedroom. The guys were actually really nice and gracious, even offering to get soda or non-alcoholic beverages if I wanted. I felt like I was backstage at Conan or something—if Conan, like, came on public access at 4am.


I saw the set list and learned that I was opening the show!
Gulp. Blergh. Gloop. Labia.

I was hoping I’d get nestled in the middle, giving me ample time to feel out the room and see what these rugged Queens-bound Caucasians were into. I was told that it was a compliment, as they thought I’d bring good energy to get the show rolling. I had hoped to try new jokes, but as I looked out into the Caucasian Sea of faces, I immediately went into my own tales from Caucasia. All in all, the set was a bit spotty, with the biggest laughs coming from my asides to two middle-aged dudes in the front row. (One of whom I warned that I’d “sit on your lap for the remainder of the show and make it ALL ABOUT YOU if you don’t stop talking”) All in all, though, I was glad to get back up and active—and momentarily forget that I’m a terrible employee. It was also great to meet male stand-ups who aren't assholes and don't think of me as a second-class comic.

I’m not sure why I had an Angela-Bassett-in-Waiting-to-Exhale moment on the plantation on Friday. I think I got carried away by the rapture. If the world was gonna end, maybe I felt the need to tell Massa about himself before I went. I think I’m going to use this experience to produce my own faux-reality show for MTV. I’ll just follow people around for a week leading up to “the end of the world” (faking that will really up my production budget) and see how cray they get.

The tagline:
What happens when people stop being polite and start getting raptured?????

The Final Days....

This is the final week of BHM, guys -- sadface!
Last night I raised awareness among members of Caucasia as I hosted improv team Froduce's weekly show at The Creek, in Queens.

Yes, gentle readers, I'm willing to go the ends of the earth (aka Long Island City, when none of the trains are running properly) just to spread the word. As I made my way down the aisle singing "Wade in the Water," I could feel my ancestors watching over me.
Langston Hughes was a bit uncomfortable.

On today, the 21st day of the shortest, coldest, and BLACKEST month of the year, I'd like to give a shout out to some Af-Am intellectuals who have changed the way the world works.

Let me start off with a fellow Harlem homegirl:


Name: Patricia Bath.
Who dat be?: She's an ophthalmologist, and the first black female doctor to receive a patent for a medical invention. Patricia Bath's patent, a method for removing cataract lenses, transformed eye surgery!
Why do you care, Sojo?: I enjoy eye-fucking without consent, and eyesight is crucial to the success of such an endeavor. Thanks, Patricia, for making sure I can continue eye-fucking without consent and living life unnecessarily in fourth gear well into my 80s (you know, like grandma!)

[NO PHOTO AVAILABLE - THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!]

Name: Henry Blair
Who dat be?: Henry received a patent on October 14, 1834 for a seed planter and a patent in 1836 for a cotton planter.
Why do you care, Sojo?: Henry basically did his part to end slavery. Done with cotton, he decided he'd make a machine do the plantin'! Holla at a can-do man!

[NO PHOTO AVAILABLE - THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!]

Name: W. B. Purvis
Who dat be?: Homeboy invented the fountain pen!!! He was basically like, "I can't keep carrying this damn ink around, let's streamline this shizzle."
Why do you care, Sojo?: Without the fountain pen, all of my best 5th grade assignments (the emo poetry, especially) would have been covered in puddles of ink. Plus, we'd never have a gift for older men we barely know. (Merry Christmas, boss man - would you like this pretty fountain pen???)



Name: George Crum
Who dat be?: The son of an African-American father and a Native American mother, Crum was working as a chef in the summer of 1853 when he incidentally invented the chip. It all began when a patron who ordered a plate of French-fried potatoes sent them back to Crum's kitchen because he felt they were too thick and soft. To teach the picky patron a lesson, Crum sliced a new batch of potatoes as thin as he possibly could, and then fried them until they were hard and crunchy.
Why do you care, Sojo?: Um, hello -- potato chips!! Without them, sammies would be so boring.
(Crum's invention also shows that black rage can be a force for good.)


I urge you to spend the last days of BHM taking a look around you. See those 3-D glasses you got from the 3pm showing of "Avatar"? What about that SuperSoaker you had as a kid? Perhaps they were created by a black person!!

I know, I know. Your mind is BLOWN.

You're welcome.

Things I Learned While Babysitting a Two-Year-Old in Queens Last Night:

Outer-boroughs have amenities. There's a post office, a movie theater, and tons of restaurants to choose from!

Jack Johnson, Nick Drake, and Ryan Adams make a great “sleepytime mix” on your iPod. However, Bjork can induce nightmares.

Dora the Explorer isn’t actually exploring anything. She was, like, looking for pigs in a barn. That's not ethnic at all!

It’s very important to know the address of the home in which you are babysitting. It is impossible to order food otherwise.

A sloth moves very very slowly. Say it with me. Slow-ly! Muy Bien!
(damn you, Diego—you make me learn whether I like it or not)

You can’t trick a kid into falling asleep. There is no such thing as the “game where we sit in the rocking chair and are really, really quiet.”

Y is for young Yolanda Yorgenson yelling on a yellow yak. Dr. Seuss, what can't you alliterate?!

Never separate a growing boy from his trucks. You will live to regret it.

Cartoons aren’t what they used to be.
Okay, I need to explain this one. Has anyone seen this show on Noggin called “Max and Ruby”? It’s about two rabbits who are brother and sister—Ruby, who is 7, and Max, who is 3. As in real life, the younger brother is always getting on Ruby’s nerves but in the end there’s a comical resolution. What struck me as odd about the show was the following:

Max and Ruby have no parents. You never see or hear any sort of grown up rabbit, telling them to behave.

As a result, Ruby ends up taking care of Max, doing everything from bathing him (4 times in one episode!) to tucking him in at night (see the “Max’s Bedtime” episode for more details). This makes Ruby sort of like a single mother. Is she a welfare rabbit?

Why do they give this little 7 year old so much responsibility? I mean, just watching it, I felt bad for her. Where were her friends? What about Ruby’s personal time? She couldn’t even practice “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” on the piano without Max interrupting.

Ruby's just trying to get her Mozart on when Max rolls up all needy-like.

Is this show supposed to be some sort of subliminal birth control, showing kids the dangers of taking on parenthood too young? It worked for me, and I’m a grown-ass woman!!

I also found the need to bathe Max 4 times a bit excessive and bordering on pornographic. Why does he have to be naked so much? How does that move the plot forward or flesh out the character? It was gratuitous animal nudity unlike any I've ever seen.

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!)