New York, I Love Hate You

I am so over this damn city.

I got on the train this morning and, honestly, there was nothing particularly special about today's rush-hour madness. I spent 30 minutes clutching my purse to make room, apologizing for my every movement and occasionally my own weary sighs, and trying to move in ways that would let the dude behind me know that we shouldn't be touching butts--you know, the usual. But I just hit a wall of Danny Glover-ness (I'm too old for this shit!) combined with Samuel L. Jackson fed-up-edness (I'm sick and tired of these muthafuckin' snakes on this muthafuckin' plane!!!) that I can't get through.

Listen, I know it's "the greatest city on earth," and I sure as hell wouldn't want to live in another city in America, but we're selling ourselves short, people! And the worst part is that these low standards are acceptable. Living in New York City and taking public transportation, I smell human excrement on a daily basis--sometimes several times a day--and this is commonplace. WTF??! This ain't Calcutta! This sure as hell ain't 14th-century England during the bubonic plague--why is there excrement in the streets?! We're worth more!

This started getting to me when I was walking to the subway and saw this homeless guy. He's tall and skinny and looks about 70 years old (thought he's probably 40) and he's balding with basically two long matted dreadlocks. When I saw him on the platform, my first thought was, "Aw, shit, this guy again. I better get a damn seat so he doesn't touch my shoulder and call me 'beautiful miss.'" Y'all, this man is not violent or loud, but he is relentless. But the point is: Why do I have a history with a hobo??? I am not, nor have I ever been, impoverished (praise black Jesus). I have never dated a hobo or performed at a hobo benefit. And yet I see this person and can immediately recall his life story and personality quirks as though he were an old school chum. I'm not okay with this! Of course, the fact that I'm annoyed by him just gets me one rung closer to hell, and I'm not proud of it, but this is how NYC gets you. You get inoculated to pain, y'all.

Yesterday after work I was getting into the train at 28th street and I saw two men on the steps, standing a few feet apart from each other. Black guy was standing further down, White guy was standing toward the top (I'm ID'ing them by race to make it easier to describe, don't worry!). On the other side, a guy was trying to exit, so I waited for the clog to clear. The guy came through but the other two men didn't move. The Black guy waved the white guy down and told him to come closer. I'm thinking these two are going to walk down so I start going down but they stop about 4 steps up from the subway platform. The Black guy reaches into his sock and pulls out a baggie. The white guy peels off some bills and hands him cash. I interrupt this exchange with, "Excuse me, um, can I get through? thank you."
Y'all, I walked through a drug deal!! LIKE I'M JUST STRAIGHT OUT OF A SPIKE LEE JOINT AND DON'T GIVE A F#?!%

I didn't realize this until a minute after I swiped my Metrocard--and that's what really got me. Growing up in pre-gentrified Harlem as the child of a mother who worked in family and criminal court, I am anything but cavalier, and I know that killers are around every corner (oh yeah, I'm a drama queen who grew up on Lifetime movies). I never thought I'd see the day I'd burst through an interracial illegal drug trade. That guy could have pulled anything out of his sock (like a weapon!) and I woulda been up in the crossfire! I need to go back to Australia so I can get my head back on straight and appreciate this place. Who's with me?

Clockin' 10,000 Hours, 5 Minutes at a Time (A WOMANifesto?)

I've done four mics in the last three days, which might be laughable to Louis CK, but has me really proud of myself. Even though I love sleep like a fat kid loves not being made fun of, I know that I won't get off the plantation if I don't start squirreling away food and necessities to prepare for my escape--metaphorically speaking.

But man, open mics and networking sucks. At the end of a boring day writing about pictures of fruit in bowls, the last thing I want to do is to spend up to 2 hours in a lame bar surrounded by poorly dressed, mildly autistic, self-loathing men who are all friends with each other just so I can spend 5 minutes holding a microphone in front of the aforementioned boys club. They're not exactly my target audience.

Any comic who's made it--and developed a sustainable career--has put in the time and continues to do so. But I find it so hard to "replenish the creative well," so to speak, when I'm just running from one thing to the next, grocery bags under the eyes like I'm shoppin' at Whole Foods, and not really engaging in the world. I'm half tempted to start drinking and hooking up with randos just for the material!

I jest. I think.

Gladwell says it's all about clockin' the hours. But if I've gotta wait to hit 10,000 one set at a time, I may not be an outlier until I'm 84 years old. And by then, we'll all be hairless pod people providing the life force for Apple's cyborgs, so no one will really care. (Do you think they'll have comedy clubs in the dystopian future? I feel like they'd all be 20-person bringers with a 12-drink minimum.)

I'm finding myself most fueled by collaboration with strong black women of every color. I'm not above open mics and all, but nowadays I think of my best stuff when sitting and talking one-on-one with a quick-witted gal pal. Since that's the opposite of soul-crushing, I think I'll continue to go that route and not judge myself if I don't hit an open mic.

Why am I discussing this? Well, I just got a link to an article from--you guessed it!--a Caucasian strong black woman that really reinforced some of these thoughts. In it, the author cites Molly Lambert's article "Can't Be Tamed: A Manifesto," where she says:

“Befriend The Other Woman… She is not the enemy. She is never your enemy. The enemy is always any guys who are creating situations that limit the number of females allowed. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down.”

I did a show at 11pm last night because the woman hosting it had a last-minute cancellation and thought of me. She thought of me because, despite my insecurity, when she sent an email blast saying she was running this show, I told her to keep me in mind for future slots that might open up (it's booked really far in advance).

And she did. And so, even though I wanted to go home and write, I showed up because I don't believe in turning down a gig. And I know that none of this is owed to me. And this gal who I'm convinced thinks I'm pathetic will never get a chance to prove me wrong if I don't let it go. She is not my enemy. Most of the time, I'm my own damn enemy and I've decided I'm done hatin' on me!

You Can Find Me in Da (Country) Club

*******Breaking Blacktress News******

October 22, I’ll be heading to New Hampshire to do a show with 5 Funny Females--and I’ll be making more money than I’ll have to spend getting there!

I'll also have a 20-minute set--plenty of time to do my best blackting and comedic stylings. It's very exciting but also a touch nerve-wracking—the show is in New Hampshire, y’all. At a country club.

Yes, a country club.

You know a blacktress gets uneasy when traveling through the Caucasian countryside, but when I’m on a veritable Northern plantation—and so recently after the release of The Help, no less—it becomes even more touch and go. What if they force me to teach them what it means to really love, or how to sing with emotion? I immediately reached out to the other NYC comic who's booked, asking if we could carpool. She's from Boston and knows how to traverse these lands. (I've found that, when traveling into unknown parts of Caucasia, it helps to bring your own blondtourage to help with translation and such.)

The lineup includes a lesbian, an Asian woman, and a blacktress, so I’m not exactly expecting the RNC, but seeing as it’s at a country club and people are spending $55 for dinner and a show, I can’t really count my chickens.

I should probably keep a lid on the whole “gentrifying the vag” thing, though.

This is really good news after the start to a rough week. Tuesday I went to the dentist for a cleaning, only to find out that I have not one, not two, but four cavities!!! And this, after the hygienist tells me the cost of my cleaning and exam is double what they said it was (she got her facts wrong). WTF?!

I floss diligently—even in a blackout! (I’ve seen evidence of my strict oral hygiene the next morning, floss strewn about like yarn ravaged by kittens.) How did this happen?

I guess trying to dodge orthodontic bills by making my retainer out of Laffy Taffy wasn’t as smart as I thought.

The cavities themselves don’t stress me out as much as the cost of them. The doc says it’ll be $200 - $300 for each filling.
Remember how last week I was depressed about not being able to fund my dreams? Well, now, I can’t even fund my own oral health!

The only way I can swing this is to do one filling per month until I’m all done.
Y’all, I am basically putting my teeth on layaway!

Um, did I or did I not get a degree? Do I or do I not direct the editorial for a national magazine? (ok, it’s probably only read by 12 people, but still—you can find it in any bookstore that hasn’t gone bankrupt!)
HOW CAN I NOT AFFORD MY TEETH????

Add to this the bills from my near-terminal-illness, and I’m actually going to have to file Chapter 11. Or, like, Chapter 9—close to bankruptcy, but not quite.

Okay, I know I’m, like, 40 years behind, but what the hell is the point of insurance? I don’t think I should have to pay for any services unless they find and treat whatever it is ails me. I mean, if I get into your radioactive tube and you don’t find anything, then why should I give you half my paycheck? If I get in your radioactive tube and you find cancer or a tumor and can’t actually cure me, why should my surviving relatives pay you? I mean, clearly, you’ve failed them. It’s just like camping—why go outside and pretend to be poor? United Healthcare, why must I pay you for: (1) making me think I’m going to die; (2) accepting a doctor’s suggestion that she do a minimally invasive and simple test [that actually costs hundreds of dollars.]; (3) telling me that I’m actually in good health, or in a state that no one can really do anything about? It seems that I’m right where I left off, only with a damn neti pot and some supplements.

Ok, that’s enough from me. The money from this gig can go to half a filling!
How are you guys? Leave a comment with a word or phrase, and I’ll use it to write today’s sketch—seriously!

A Treatise Inspired by Adam Carolla

Okay, let me say this: I have never liked Adam Carolla. I find his nasal voice to be annoying and even when he was giving “sex advice” on MTV’s Loveline he sounded cocky and dismissive. That being said, perhaps he isn’t a bad comedian. Although he’s damn near 50 years old, he’s got a teenaged-frat-boy sense of humor that appeals to many….teenaged frat boys.

However, his recent homophobic, anti-trans (and anti-Asian?) tirade on his podcast The Adam Carolla Show —one of the most downloaded podcasts in the country—has confirmed every negative assumption I’ve ever made about theman

Have a listen:


Okay, it’s gross, we know. It’s also par for the Carolla course, it seems. What makes me so angry about it is his “apology”—issued via Twitter, no less. Because after all, why would you need more than 140 characters to say sorry about something you’re not actually sorry about?
“I’m sorry my comments were hurtful. That being said, I’m a comedian, not a politician.”

Now, as you may know, the blacktress has also come under fire for comments made via blog and on stage. I have been misinterpreted in some instances and in others, it simply hurt the listener to hear my dramatized/performance-level anger and/or musings. Both of these are par for the course in comedy and any other form of public expression. You cannot control how someone’s brain transforms information. And, thanks to the internet, you can’t control how someone receives information.

But that doesn’t mean that comedians aren’t accountable. When a comic responds to criticism with the phrase “it’s just a joke,” or “I’m not a politician,” it implies that there’s no intention behind his or her words. And honestly, any comic who has actually worked to achieve a certain level of success/public recognition has spent years going through shitty open mics; has spent their days reading—or writing—books titled Truth in Comedy and The Comedy Bible and Comedy Writing Secrets; and making national recognition a life goal. In short: every word he writes or says in a comedic context isn’t “just a joke”. If you want to be a joke-maker, then perhaps you shouldn’t address issues of same-sex marriage, equal rights for people of all creed, religion, or gender on a public platform.

Point the third: There is a difference between a rant (Carolla’s tirade) and a bit (a comedian’s crafted joke on a particular topic). Of course, talking off the cuff/not in the context of a stand-up set or sketch, not everything is going to have beats, patterns, word play, or LOL moments. But a bit is a routine on a given topic. It takes an idea and mines it in a way that is humorous.
A rant is “speaking or shouting at length in a loud of impassioned way.”
That’s what Carolla did--in this case, about the LGBTQ community as a whole.

Yes, there can be ranting bits—Carlin and the like—but it’s usually the way they process and explain their rage (i.e.their unique and offbeat thinking”) that provides humor.
Carolla just went off.
And, constitutionally, he’s allowed to do so. But did he really have to spend 7 minutes on it?

Guys, this is coming from a self-proclaimed mad blacktress. I have definitely utilized the guise of Sojourner to say things that people didn’t like to hear. And of course, there is truth in comedy, and although there is dramatization for effect or performance, there is a true root sometimes. But does he really have to use being a “comedian” as a pass to be a total bigot?

Oh yeah, and regarding this whole “comedian” thing—his rant wasn’t remotely funny, so he seems to have failed on that end, too.

What say you?

I Feel Like Lady Gaga

Let me explain.

So, last year LG did a concert at Madison Square Garden, and one of her many magical grotesque diva moments involved her pretending she’s Tinkerbell—ugh, there’s no way I can describe a GAGA moment. Roll the tape (start at :30):

I never thought I’d say this, but I totally get where she’s coming from. I NEED THE BLOG!!!!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT THE FORUM FOR EXPRESSING MY INANITY!!!!

My dearest blog darlings, how I’ve missed you (or, I guess, missed myself writing to you?)!!! I’m blogging to you now with one hand after having minor surgery on my left wrist on Monday. It was local anesthesia, and I was out in 15 minutes, but having three needles poked into your hand as a burly, ethnically ambiguous doctor asks, “Are you gonna pass out?” isn’t exactly a party on fountain. I’m on the mend, but have been trying not to aggravate it, which means I’m hunting and pecking on the keyboard like the keyboardist in Flock of Seagulls. As if I wasn’t bored enough on the plantation, it’s taking me thrice* as long to do everything! It’s really put a cramp in my bloggery, and there’s really so much to share.

Let me begin with the information that I’ve been bursting to share since Tuesday.
Monday night, when I was hepped up on painkillers and realizing I’d poorly planned this surgery, I decided to console myself with a documentary on genetic anomalies, which you know that always brightens my spirits. I turned on the boob tube just in time to catch “My Child is a Monkey”—score! I tucked in, expecting to learn about a Mogley-esque child who learned the bare necessities in a third-world country (I swear, the anomalies are almost always in the third world) and drift of too sleep with the knowledge that things weren’t so bad in my one-handed world.

My dear readers, what I witnessed on my television screen was more terrifying than any episode of “born without a face” or “to catch a predator” and a hotter mess than all three seasons of Teen Mom. The documentary wasn’t about children raised by animals or children with some sort of animal feature—it was about White women who adopt monkeys and raise them as children!!!

No, these women aren’t Michael Jackson-level wealthy. These chimps do not walk the red carpet with Brooke Shields. These are regular-ass middle aged members of Caucasia (yes, I said it!) who spend thousands of dollars on an animal that should not be domesticated, plucking it from its mother just days after birth only to put it in a diaper and stick it in a cage for the rest of its life—which can be upwards of 40 years.

Why would people do this? Why is this an actual acceptable business? Do you think it’s because slavery’s now illegal and Caucasians love to cage something? (not you, my readers—but you know some of your people are a hot mess!) As a leathery-skinned middle-aged British woman rode to a Capuchin monkey breeder in Virginia, she talked about how nervous and excited she was, and I’ve never wanted to punch my television set more. As that cute little monkey clung to the stuffed animal they’d put him on (no doubt to make him appear more infant-like), I felt like a misspent youth in a movie theater watching a horror flick. “RUN, RUN, MONKEY!!! THAT WHITE LADY COMIN FO’ YO’ ASS!!!” I screamed. As she and the breeder laugh at the fact that the monkeys know their babies will be taken and the woman hands over $5,500 in cash (in this economy?!), I was about ready to cut a bitch.

Y’all, I can’t do it justice. Here’s a clip (the British woman starts at 8:50):

She named her monkey George. How tacky.
I feel like even the narrator is judging—can’t you hear it in her voice?

It was when we cut to “Monkey Whisperer” Lisa, who helps domesticate the monkeys (called ‘monKIDS’—yes, y’all!) that I almost had a stroke. As Lisa exited the airport with her monkey on her back, I wished it was metaphorical. Two passersby stopped to coo at the animal. “Is he your pet?” one of the girls asked. “No, he’s not my pet, he’s my partner for life,” said Lisa.

OH HELL TO THE NO! Partner for life?! What kind of partner requires you to wipe their ass for the next 40 years? If that’s love, I’d like to pass right now. And Lisa’s just rubbing the monkey’s butt, trying to make it callous so that he gets used to diapers, and has the nerve to say, “It’s not cruel what we’re doing. The mothers jump with them on their back from tree to tree.”
Um, you’re not a monkey mom, you’re a random lady with monster claws trying to harden up his butt.

Y’all, this is like Losing Isaiah x 100.


Okay, y’all, there’s even more to report, but it’s taken me over an hour to write this and I’m sure your eyes have glazed over (or you’re now watching every Lady Gaga YouTube clip you can find). I’ll fill you in on the latest mama drama and the one-year anniversary of Blacktress and Jewboo later!!!

Glad I'm not a Monkey Mom!
-Blacktress


*can we make that word? Let’s get Merriam Webster on the horn.

Step Up 4 Realz

Happy Friday, Y’alls!

So, this past Tuesday was my berfday, and I am starting to feel the effects of another year. I had a decent day, primarily because I didn’t go to work. I woke up early, did some exercise, went to get my hair did, met mamadukes for lunch, and then we went to get our nails and toes done (like rapper Nelly, I too am a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes). I planned to share my beautification with Jewboo, with whom I was going to see Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson on the great Broadway! We were going with a really cute couple, Steven and Dan. Steven and I share the same bday, and he’s one of those ethnically ambiguous-looking Jews, which I heart (I love when people come up to them speaking Spanish).

The show was good (primarily because it starred Jeff Hiller, my spirit animal--who was kind enough to take us onto the set post-show!), but I was less then enthused by the time the lights went down. Before meeting up with Steven and Dan, Jewboo gave me my birthday present. He had been excited about it for several weeks, priding himself on ordering it early. Although I’d kept my excitement at a minimum, it kept all my blackting skills to act gracious when I unwrapped the package.

He’d bought me a copy of The Walking Dead Compendium. You know, the first 48 issues of the comic book--oh, I’m sorry, graphic novel--on which the series is based. I do love me some zombies, and I’ve been really into the tv show, so I sorta get where he was coming from with the gift idea.
Sorta.

The thing is, I do not like comic books. I have had no penchant for picture books since the age of 7. I have nothing against them, and I am aware that many adults read them, and they’ve apparently grown quite sophisticated and complex since Sojourner was a young truth-teller. Since dating Jewboo I have made more than a few trips to Midtown Comics so he could scope out the latest releases, and I found myself able to overlook the scent of Dr. Pepper and low self esteem and really see the patrons around me. They’re people, too.

But I simply don’t get comics. I never know what order in which I’m supposed to read the talk bubbles, and I get all confused. I just don’t know if I’m a visual thinker, because I see the pictures, and it’s like, “Ok. I guess that means he’s walking far.” It just doesn’t resonate.

I have often said this, which is why a 20-pound, 350 page comic as a gift was not only shocking, but mildly worrisome. Does he not know who I am? It’s not even that I wanted any particular thing. I would have greatly appreciated a free hot meal and a cupcake. I mean, I know he knows me, because he printed out and taped the following e-card to the front of the box:

(Yeah, we’ve been through a lot.)

So why the comic, y’all? Of course, it’s not even about the gift. I realized that I’ve been holding on to a lot of residual resentment, and when he couldn’t even Step Up for my birthday, it all came out. He got a job at Columbia, only 20 minutes away from where I live, and yet he hasn’t spent the night at my home since 10/23, often using the excuse that he doesn’t “have his stuff.”

Okay, now I get that we all have our routines, but as I stood in the drugstore buying products for him after 9 months of dating, I wondered if I should even be doing this. If he wants to stay with me, shouldn’t he get his own products?
I live alone, in a very nice place, with tons of on-demand channels, and yet I trek to Greenpoint more often than a Polish immigrant trying to get her paperwork translated. The only time he’s come over to my place since 10/23 is when he wanted to use my kitchen to shoot a web video. He, along with 6 other folks came over to my house on a Sunday night, took twice as long as was scheduled, and when he was leaving, all he had to say was “thanks,” after telling me that he had been upset with me for telling them to utilize the extras sooner rather than later.

I get that he’s busy, and I’ve been trying to be supportive, but as it gets colder and I try to walk the 20 minutes from the train to his house as quickly as possible, with every step I wonder why Jewboo won’t Step Up 2 Da Streets (of Harlem). Add to that the fact that I spent 8 months paying for things and have yet to be treated to anything since he got a job, and, you know, blacktress was about to get ghetto up in here.

So, after talking to everyone but him, we met for dinner and had a talk last night. I know he loves me, and perhaps I haven’t been as clear as I think (because it seems to obvious to me what he should do, I almost feel crazy having to break it down). I explained that I was disappointed in his lack of initiative, and had been trying not to fight, but was just not living up to my TRUTH. I told him that I understand he’s a procrastinator and has trouble making plans, but I needed him to Step Up 3-D —you feel me, ladies?

He took it well, and had a good think while we ate. It helped that I not only made a list of grievances, but the fancy-ass face wash I had to order online for him had arrived that day, and I had the UPS package in my purse. When he asked what it was, I quickly displayed my effort/his products. I had also visited good ol' Wikipedia and looked up the definition of “empiricism,” because my former-philosophy-professor of a Jewboo often responds to my emotional reactions with, “I just don’t think like that, because I’m an empirical guy.” So, with a firm definition of empiricism as a theory of knowledge which asserts the idea that knowledge arises via sense experience; the belief theories must be tested against observations of the natural world, rather than resting solely on a priori reasoning, intuition, or revelation, I explained not simply the way things made me feel, but the observations of his actions in the "natural world" of our REALationship.
I had to go deep into the male mind for this one, y'all. It required internet-study.

I explained the facts, and basically asked him if he felt my grievances were out of line. Honestly, if you can’t stand Sojourner’s truths, get out of the relationship kitchen!

He said they weren’t, and really felt bad about some behaviors. He also came at me with some of my own truths, noting that I tend to plan things to avoid disappointment, but as a result don’t give him the opportunity to take the reigns. So he hangs back, and then I feel like he’s not active. He had me there, y'all--with default emotions of sadness, anger, and fear, I can't help by try to control everything in an attempt to avoid those emotions. I love a man who can dish up a steaming hot bowl of TRUTH.

Okay, I’m done now. How y’all doing?

Getting off Struggle Strasse

You know how they say it’s hard out there for a pimp? Well, I think it’s much harder for a blacktress (didn’t the pimp get an Oscar nom?). Y’all, I am on Struggle Street, for serious. I mean, we all know struggle street (or, as I like to call it, struggle strasse to really highlight the pain)—how it feels when you’re swamped at work one week, when you’re getting rejected like a Jersey Shore cast member’s college application, when you wake up with no heat or hot water and don’t know what to do.

But normally, you get through it. It’s just one of life’s many valleys, and you know there’ll be another peak. In those moments, you’re just walking down Struggle Strasse—you know, you took a wrong turn, but you know that once you get your bearings you’ll be back on Make It Happen Boulevard.

Sometimes, though, it’s not so simple. Sometimes you end up on Struggle Strasse and get wooed by its cheap rent. You’re so hopeless you end up signing a damn lease and the next thing you know, it’s the middle of summer and you find out the windows in your apartment in the Struggle Strasse Projects can’t open, much less support an air conditioner.

That’s where I’m at right now. Nothing tragic happened—I just sorta let this malaise snowball, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m even young, gifted, or black! (did you see one of the recent angry comments? I’m a discredit to the race!) I had a few shows happening, but I’m running out of new material—and not really writing more!!! What kind of roll-over-and-play-dead kind of behavior is this?! Definitely more wacktress than blacktress.

I think it really has to do with not liking my job, and not really knowing what alternatives I have—you know, probably the way an oppressed person feels almost everyday. I’m not accustomed to this. As mamadukes says to me when I’m acting a fool, “I didn’t work hard so you could cry all day.” That, and “if you want sympathy, you can find it between ‘shit’ and ‘syphillis’ in the dictionary.”

It’s tough love, but it works.

I don’t know what to do people! I’m trying to write funny hilarities to pitch to humor sites, and my brain turns to mush! What’s hip with the young kids? Is Bieber still hot? Why have I missed so many episodes of GLEE? This is what happens when you spend your evenings hunched over Edy’s Slow Churned Ice Cream (it doesn’t matter if it’s half the fat when you eat twice as much of it!).

All right, y’all, I’ll stop the rant. Just tell me what to do. Please leave a comment that answers the following:

1. Sojourner, the TRUTH is you should be spending your time doing ________ for a living.

2. Blackting is…..
a. Reacting
b. Attacking
c. Distracting
d. Comparing yourself to other people and wondering if the world still thinks you’re 3/5 of a woman.

3. When your drag queen boss tells you that your tone “concerns him,” you should
a. Calmly explain your point of view.
b. Send a clarifying email, so as not to give away your hatred via eye rolling and sighing. Then, look for a new job on monster.com.
c. Start looking into working holiday visas and see if New Zealand will let you back in.
d. Cut a bitch.

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?

Sojo Goes Solo -- A Solo Show, That Is

So, as you all know, the Sojo has opinions. I’ve been inside Caucasia, got hos in different country codes, and love to share my business. This clearly means I need to have a one-blacktress show—first on LOGO, then on Bravo, then on EVERY CHANNEL POSSIBLE.

My first step on the path to world domination is taking a solo-show writing class, taught by a strong black woman in a white woman’s candy coating. I’ve heard great things about her, and although this brain of mine is teeming with ideas, I have no idea how to organize them, or what’s worth expanding upon.
And also I’m lazy and can’t motivate myself. (see any post regarding gchat, which often takes place at work).

So, I started this class on Saturday, and after hosting two shows the night before, was feeling excited to nurture the blacktress within. These feelings quickly disappeared when I walked into the classroom and found myself, yet again, in the heart of Caucasia.
And not just any Caucasia, but smiley, excited, creative types who, despite being able to tap into their emotions, seem to lack self-awareness.

The class was 11 girls and 1 guy, which actually could have been pleasant, given my last improv class experience, which consisted of 14 white boys and one blacktress (such a circle jerk!). But I walk in, and I suddenly felt like it was the first day of Dalton (NYC private school that blacktress attended in her youth. The school’s motto should have been, “Dalton: it’s where self-esteem goes to die.”) All the girls know each other from previous classes and shows, and are giggling and gabbing in their high-pitched tones, and everyone has taken a class with the teacher already—and is her BFF—except for myself. I swear, if there had been a stool in a corner, I would have sat in it.

To make matters worse, the first person I see when I walk in is this girl from my college who I could not stand. Although I’m open to her surprising me, I find her to be overly confident and she gets under my skin. Whatever, I need to let it go and let it flow, right?

So, I try to shake it off, take opposite action and engage in class, not make myself the last person to present as we go through exercises, and generally remind myself that I’m here to work on me, and I don’t need to be besties with anyone.

It’s not really working, though, and the last 30 minutes of the class are spent playing "questions," where one person gets in the circle and everyone else fires questions at them. This exercise is meant to get us closer, remove that awkward feeling, and foster a sense of comaraderie. Here are some highlights:
When asked her favorite book, one girl answers, "The one I wrote."
WHO DOES THAT?
Really? The one you wrote? She seems like a nice girl, but I’m sorry, that is a first-impression FAIL.
Another girl’s questions only consist of drug-related experiences. "When was the last time you were really fucked up?" she asked, or "What's the hardest drug you've ever done?" Of course, when placed in the center of the circle, she spent much of her time recounting the time she did 7 hits of liquid acid after several tequila shots.
I’m sorry, but like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, I’m getting too old for this shit.

When asked, "When was the last time you stole something?" one girl, whose name I've blocked out, replies, "Oh, god, I stole some lipstick from CVS, some bracelets from H&M, and a sweater from Century 21--and I got caught for that one." This girl is 20-something, started class whining about crashing with her parents in Westchester while the person she's house-sitting for comes back to town for a week, and is a non-working actress. I don’t think she really needs to steal things. No one has oppressed her--why is she engaging in thievery?

These are basically long examples to explain that, as a blacktress working on a personal-story-driven solo show about time inside Caucasia, and my own conflicting feelings about race, class, and both of these things as modes of performance, these students may not be good for me.

So, this is a bit of a rant, but I had to get it out. Should I stay in the class? I think the teacher could be really great, very smart, and she’s kind of a bad-ass lesbian I’d want to hang out with on the weekends. But if I’m not comfortable and trusting of my fellow classmates, how can I really write and express myself freely? Ain’t I, Sojourner, a woman?! Don’t I deserve to be there? Don’t I need to hang up my hang-ups at the same time that I hang up my coat? I need to get it together, cause I am not being a strong black woman!

How are you today, gentle readers?

House Guests - A Rant.

I'm currently holed up in my room, watching Private Practice.
I have five house guests, three of whom are 18-year-old girls.

I am not pleased.

These are members of the Detroit Crew. I think you all know, from previous posts, my feelings on my Detroit fam. These guests aren't even blood relatives, and I don't speak to them regularly. How do you just rock up in someone's home, rolling 5-deep, and think that's acceptable?

Sorry, let me backtrack.

So, my aunt's best friend has three daughters. The oldest is the same age as me and my cousin, so during my summers in Detroit, we were a trio. Her middle daughter was a few years younger, so she mostly rolled with us in the capacity of any younger sister (flunky, tattle-tale, etc.). The youngest girl is 8 years below us, so we were never close. Once she stopped letting us dress her up, we all sort of lost interest, you know?

Well, she's now celebrating her 18th birthday and her mom thought she'd combine her conference in NYC with her daughter's birthday present, so guess who now has her and two of her friends for the next three days?
YAY FOR ME!

The mother emails me and asks if she and her Jamaican lover can also stay the night, as the place they're crashing the rest of the weekend won't be free til Friday. I have no choice but to oblige.
Quick question, guys: Why can't a 50-something-year-old attorney get a hotel for the night so that she and her lover can have privacy and a personal bathroom? I know it's a recession, but if you can't swing it, don't bring it!

So, a mere 15 minutes before Jim and Pam's wedding on "The Office," they arrive. There's the one I knew growing up, who has really matured in the last few years. Although I haven't seen her, I've heard that she's had a bout of chlamydia, and was briefly in a relationship with a 25-year-old woman. Then, she introduced me to her best friend. It went something like this:
Bitchy 18-year-old I Don't Want here: [pointing to her friend] This is my best friend, (pointing to me)and this is my cousin.*
Me: Hello. I'm Sojourner.
The Best Friend: Hi.
She does not say her name. I have never met her before and she plans on staying in my home and yet does not think it's sensible to state her name and perhaps say "thanks for letting me stay." This is yet another reason why black people can't have nice things--children lack home training.

This girl immediately breaks out her cell and starts chatting with folks. Apparently, there's no need for me to say, "make yourself comfortable."

The girl I know asks if her older sister is coming.
"What?" I ask. "I'm clearly uninformed."
Moments later my cell phone rings. It's the sis. She goes to grad school in DC and is apparently coming down.
"Hey, Sojo, can I come stay?! I got off Monday, so I'll just kick it til y'all kick me out."


Um, okay, people. I'm at least somewhat friends with the sis, she's my age, we grew up together. If the whole damn rest of her family, including her mother's illegal immigrant lover, are going to stay, there's no way I can tell her no. However, this now brings our total to 6. We don't have the beds, or the food, and I quite frankly don't have the patience.

House Guests are a lot of work. Having to be chipper, tend to people's needs, and generally make sure 18-year-olds don't cause a ruckus means that for the next 3-5 days, my home is not my own. And when the people staying seem to lack courtesy and kindness, there's little incentive to put on the act.


Through the phone call with the older sis, the mother and her Jamaican lover are sprawled out on the couch. When I explain that I'll leave the girls directions and get them on the subway, the mother looks at me with a passive aggressive expression, I guess thinking that I'd be taking them around.
Um, what? Me with three legal adults in tow? I don't think so. See, I have a few rules in life:
- Ass, gas, or grass--nobody rides for free.
- John Krasinski is my future husband.
- If you're old enough to get chlamydia and test your sexuality, you're old enough to take the subway alone.
Am I right?

Playing tourist in a city I live in isn't on my to-do list. I'm not "re-discovering," I'm simply navigating my way through throngs of tourists in densely populated areas. Besides, I did this last week with a Danish pal, even taking her to the bar from the film "Coyote Ugly" (it's her favorite movie. I kid you not.). Hanging out with teens isn't my idea of fun. I hate teenagers. Especially ones who are only interested in boys and clothes. I was never that teen, so those with lack of drive (college? what college?) or interests simply confuse me. They don't read books, they don't watch television shows; there are no common denominators to aid small talk, and even if there were, they certainly wouldn't last us 8-10 hours of gallivanting around Manhattan.

It's now 10:30am (some time has lapsed. Too busy tending, I wasn't able to return to this post til the next morning). I hear music blasting down the hall. I'm going try to shuttle these bitches out, maybe direct them to IHop for breakfast, cause I sure as hell ain't cooking.

What can I do to get through this? Any suggestions?


*Note: we are not related at all. She knows this.

A Rant.

Okay, so you already know how much I love repressed Caucasia, as embodied in the television show Mad Men, right? Well, I tucked in for another riveting episode last night, as part of "Dysfunctional TV Sundays" (True Blood, followed by Mad Men, then topped up with back-to-back episodes of To Catch a Predator). I was immediately displeased with the episode, as the characters' constant drinking coupled with my hangover triggered my gag reflex like none other. Normally I support Don Draper's addictions, and I'm placing bets on whether Betty's baby will come out with flippers the way she drinks, but last night was just too much.

I thought it couldn't get any worse until Roger Sterling decided to entertain his garden party guests with a song performed in black face. I kid you not.

Now, okay, I know the show tells the story of a time gone by, when men were men, women were women, and the races didn't mingle. But it's the early 60s in New York City. Was blackface the thing to do? Was it really how the Caucasian elite entertained themselves on a Saturday afternoon? And, to top it off, it seemed none of my fellow Mad Men-viewing friends seemed to notice or care, judging by their status messages related to the show. Was it really only awkward for me? God, I feel so black right now.

I am so over viewing ignorance, regardless of whether or not it's a period piece. This could be because, ever since I got my hair braided, it seems that a little bit of Australia has returned with me to NYC. Caucasians seem to think it's acceptable to touch my head, and the neverending questions have me on the verge of screaming "WIKI BLACK HAIR CARE, PLEASE!" Or, when my friend said to me, "see, the thing is, I like you cause you're not one of those uppity black folks."

Um, is it okay for me to cut a bitch, or would that be setting back the movement?

Okay, I'm done with my rant. How was your weekend?

WACK History Month

What the hell is going on here, people?! First Beyonce - Etta James duel to the death, New York scheduled to appear in the Vag Mons, and now Chris Brown is charged with assaulting Rihanna.

I am in Disturbia.

What's prompted me to blog is the recent New York Times Article on the whole thing. Check it here. Here's the excerpt that really pisses me off:

“He was very professional and didn’t appear to have injuries,” said Sgt. Bridget Pickett, [about Chris Brown] adding, “He’s a good looking young man.”

What the hell?! I don't care if he's cute. I don't care if, after running scared, calling his manager, handlers, and 12 high-priced lawyers, he turned himself in--he assaulted his girlfriend, assholes!

And what's really making me sad is Ri-Ri. She has been in an abusive relationship with this fool for a long time. How long would it have gone on if not for this incident? As much as I respect a need for her privacy, I wish we were addressing what she's dealing with instead of hearing from rappers and cops who say Chris is "good looking." It's as though she's completely devalued. While they are the "king and queen of pop" right now, it just seems that the biggest concern is getting Chris off so we can go back to watching him dance and pretend this never happened. The willingness to sweep it under the rug is sickening. If Rihanna can't even get justice, what hope is there for the thousands of abused women who live in fear every day?

I'm sorry y'all, this just has me trippin'. What do you think?

Ri-ri, I got your back. I will be breaking dishes and using them to cut Chris Brown!

Where's MY TV Show?!

After my last post, which was, like, 500K and 9 million words, I'm going to keep this one short.

I need Beyonce to sit her mediocre behind down.

I know, I know, it's Black History Month, and I'm supposed to be supporting can-do black folks. But, um, there are two things I will not condone:

1. Beyonce being tapped to play political blacktivist Angela Davis in an upcoming film about the Black Panter Party. Um, wtf?!


Why do people insist that Beyonce can act? Dreamgirls wasn't any work--she played the pretty girl in a pop group who was made into a star by a domineering manager--can we say "biopic"? I don't even come close to getting it.

Luckily, I'm not the only one. JJSiii brought the following article to my attention:

At Last....Beyonce's Gonna Get Her Ass Whooped

Apparently Miss Etta James wasn't too pleased about Beyonce being chose to sing her song at the inauguration--and, while B sounded good, I totally feel Etta on this one. Homegirl made that song, and she's still alive and kicking! There's no good reason they couldn't have had Etta get up there and take 'em to church like she knows how to do. I think they only used Beyonce to promote her role as Etta in an upcoming film.

Again, why do they do this?! As a blacktress, it hurts to find that the only two women being given roles are Beyonce and "I HATE NEW YORK."

Seriously, not only did the crazy muppet have her own tv show for THREE SEASONS, but this brings me to the second thing I will not condone:

She will be appearing in an all-black touring production of The Vagina Monologues. Check out what my favorite gossip girl Blondie NYC found out:

New York says: “It’s kind of a serious actress type thingy and that’s what I’m striving to be.”

She later adds, “I really want to kind of lend my voice and let people see that I’m there and I’m focused and I want to be a part of it.”

If New York's vag had a monologue it'd say "Ow."

This is a hot-ass mess of the hottest degree.

Okay, I'm done now. Call me later, k?

This Bloke Ain't No Joke!

Y'all, I cannot even believe my delicate blacktress eyes. I had an interview this morning with a temp agency, which took about two hours. I explained my previous experiences to a sassy corporate Australian woman, then spent about 1.5 hours taking "computer skills tests," in Word, Excel, Powerpoint, and then for general typing speed and accuracy.

Things I learned:
I do NOT excel at Excel.
When I said I was "proficient in Powerpoint," turns out I wasn't lying.
I can type 80 words per minute! (no wonder my blog posts are so long)

I think I'm totally ready to be a 1960s style secretary, in the vein of Mad Men. I love a high-waisted skirt and am excellent at.....dictation.....(teehee)

Speaking of men who are mad (see how I reversed that?).....after my interview/testing, I turned back on my cell and was surprised to see a text. It was from a number I didn't recognize and said:

"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things? All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have om fun let me know. I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"

OH MY FUCKING GOD, I thought as I re-read this insanity for the second time, IT'S FROM KEBAB BOY.

For those of you just tuning in, here's a bit of a recap:
On the night of my birthday, I met a boy in a kebab shop.
We went out three times. He was dull as dishwater, and I wasn't interested.
I became proper vexed when he showed up at my place of employment uninvited and unannounced. Maturely and respectfully, I told him we shouldn't see each other anymore.
Much to my surprise he showed up at my bar two weeks later, allegedly with mates, and came over to my work area to "just to say hi."

Um, that's when I knew bitch was straight trippin'. Why would you roll up at a bar you'd never heard of until me, and then come right up in my area to say hi? We aren't besties. In fact, if memory serves, I cut your ass loose!

So, you can imagine the utter confusion, humour, and--I'll admit--dash of horror I felt when I saw the above text message.

WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM ME?! Why can't these Aussie blokes just accept that I'm not falling all over them? Maybe they think because I'm a solo traveler and foreign, my goal is to have sex with every man in the country, or that I'm so lonely, I'm not exactly discerning. THE Australian pulled the same foolishness when I decided I didn't want to see him again. What's so hard to grasp about a girl you barely know not wanting you all up her George Foreman (grill), or determining that you're not a good fit? Why aren't I allowed that choice?!

Let's do a little textual analysis:
"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things?

Um, this was said nearly a month ago. Are you still being kept up at night with thoughts of me? I mean, you didn't even get to touch a boob, so I don't get why you're obsessed. We also had nothing in common, so there was no soul connection you were missing out on.

All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have some fun let me know.
If you just wanted fun, why did you show up at my job, wait outside online for 10 minutes, and bother me while I was working to ask me to have lunch. That certainly can't be fun for you, and I know it wasn't fun for me.
Let's also note the passive-aggressive phrasing. It's like if someone asks you out and you decline and they say, "what, you don't like food?" Doing this reduces the invitation to its basic components, thereby making the person feel strange for not accepting.
Um, I DO want to have some fun. But you, to me, are not fun. A boring guy lacking in a sense of humour whose idea of fun is going for a run does not connect with me.
I don't run unless I'm being chased.
I don't do camping, because I don't want to go outside and pretend to be poor.
We aren't on the same page of the same book.

I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"

Don't reverse psychology me, Mister. No, you're not going to get a reply. I don't care how much cell phone plans cost here, I'm not having a lengthy discussion about why I do or do not want you via text message. And if you can't sac up and pick up the phone, then I'm not doing you the service of sending some abbreviation-filled text message that explains that your behavior implied intensity and that I didn't enjoy hanging out with you all that much. And, if you've noticed, I'm not missing you or asking to be your friend, so there's no need to clear anything up.

Oh, and as for that damn winking-face icon-- fuck you and your little dog, too. It's like when someone says something racist, and then writes "LOL." It's doesn't make it funny, and it doesn't make you cute.

Okay, I'm done. Am I totally crazy for being so annoyed?

Be Thankful You're Not THIS GUY

Or a blacktress.

So, as you can imagine, being a foreign woman of color down under can sometimes be a doozy. It's amazing how many things people have said to me that could be deemed offensive. Luckily, having attended an elite private school where people never left the 20-block radius of the Upper East Side, I'm not easily offended. More often than not, such comments just reveal the speaker's ignorance in a manner so blatant that I'm shocked that they don't feel shame.

And not all of these comments have to do with race (though most do). When I mention I'm from New York City, people suddenly get excited, as though the little man inside the TV has stepped out of the little box and joined them on their couch for evening tea. I mean, we all know America and it's major cities--New York in particular--have appeared all over the world in the form of television and movies. But I guess I didn't realize how deeply these images were emblazoned in the minds of millions.

For instance, while sitting in a car with some random stylish Asian students on our way to a club downtown, we made small-talk. I told them I was from New York, and one girl got really excited. She didn't speak English very well, and first began pointing at me with her thumb up, jumping up and down in the car. I was sorta confused, but waited for her to find her words.
"Do you have a gun?" She asked, sincerely and excitedly.
"What?!" I burst out laughing--not at her, but just the thought that I'd have a gun. Did she mean, like on me at that moment? She seemed to happy for me to be a criminal, so that couldn't be it. I was dying to know more.
"In New York City, everyone have guns," she said matter-of-factly.
"No they don't!" I was cracking up now, trying not to make her feel bad and keep it light, but quite eager to clear up the situation. "New York's not really more dangerous than any other place. If you know how to behave, you're fine. I mean, it's not like I walk down back alleys, pull out my wallet, and start counting my earnings. You have to think a bit, and you're all right."
She nodded, her wide Hello Kitty eyes understanding.

The thing that's so interesting is that I can't get away with shit like that. If I said to her, "Do you know tae kwon do?" I'd be seen as a racist, ignorant American--so typical of a person from the land of the Big Mac and George Bush. I can't express a lack of knowledge because it would come off as insensitive and stupid, yet for some reason my blackness seems to warrant a display of foolishness--why do we think that is?

Take, for instance, this conversation I had online with an Aussie bloke earlier today. We met through an online dating site-- I know, I know, guys, I need to stop, but old habits die hard! Lord knows I can't even try to find a man til I handle my own scandal (get a job, get my head right), but I want to meet new people and I'm thoroughly bored, being jobless and all, and can't keep talking to the same 4 people I know here. Besides, I want to see who's out there and what my options are.

Well, turns out, not many. Much like late-80s crooner Lisa Stansfield, I, too, have been around the world and I-I-I, I can't find my baby. All I'm finding are completely inappropriate cray-crays who think it's acceptable to say whatever, whenever (uh-oh, now I'm getting all Shakira on it). Check this out:

me: so, tell me a bit about yourself

kanchan says: you look good and sexy for a black lady

me: "for a black lady"? are we normally unattractive?

kanchan says: it's how African's are generally referred as, isn't it?

me: no, i wasn't asking about the word black

kanchan says: nothing intimidating I guess

kanchan says: oh, people genrally dont get attracted, that's true

kanchan says: go on please

me: go on with what? i asked you to tell me a bit about yourself. you just told me i was attractive, despite being black. it's still your turn to take this conversation to a good place.

kanchan says: but i've seen some beautiful girls going to black dudes and some handsome white men going for black women

me: what is your point?

me: i'm not sure what you're getting at with this whole subject line

kanchan says: I mean some peple get attracted or for them physical beauty is not important

me: ok

me: i don't think we'd get along very well. bye!

kanchan says: I just wanted to chat with you

Okay, am I on glue, people? He "just wanted to chat," yet his conversation topic involved a discussion of me as some sort of exception to my normally hideous, monkey-like race. He also insinuates that those who date black people could perhaps be doing so because physical attractiveness is a non-issue--because perhaps you're only with the negress for her witty banter.

This dude completely had no clue how idiotic and offensive he was being. And, alas, he's not the only Aussie to go there. I'm finding those that are attracted to me are in it for the thrill of....well, I'm not sure what exactly. Transgressing? Going to the dark side? If I'm out with a guy or having a flirtatious conversation, I have to keep in mind that his interest in me may simply be physical.

"Well, duh, Sojourner, you weren't born yesterday!"
No, of course not, I was born in 1797 on the Hardenburgh estate. But, it's not simply the possibility of a man going after a hook up. It's that he may not even be attracted to me so much as intrigued by me. Excited by the opportunity to go there. That he may very well just want to be able to tell his mates he slept with a black woman.

Now, don't get me wrong--this could totally be the case in the land UP OVER, and in the city that never sleeps. But I guess, lacking a sense of PC-ness, it's a bit more blatant down here, and it touches a nerve in a way that gets me a bit riled up (as you can tell by the length of this post).

Let me hand it over to Lisa and Barry.

(I chose this youtube clip of this song because I think it fits in with the interracial issues)

Forget Confucius—Blacktress Says…

So, I’m done with the Kiwi. After not calling me for 4 days—when he specifically said he would—I just lost interest. I mean, I don’t ask for much, but at the very least, do what you say you’re going to do, you know? Or, if you can’t do it, at least have a good reason. His excuse for not calling me: “I got really wasted all weekend and couldn’t call.”

Really? Really? That’s the best you got? Honey, in those kinds of situations, lie to me. tell me you lost a limb and needed to get it reattached before you could see me. Tell me you’ve been smoking too much and they had to amputate your fingers (like the lady in the NYC Subway ad about quitting smoking) and you couldn’t text me. Come up with some good shit!

When he finally resurfaced, he promised to make it up to me by cooking me dinner at his place. Never one to turn down a free meal (Mama didn’t raise no fool!), I went over there Monday night—and I think I might find his roommate more interesting than him.

Not a good sign.

When recounting a story about one of his coworkers (who he referred to as his “little black brother”), the Kiwi couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He’s trying to figure it out, and he looks at me and goes, “What’s a black name that begins with a ‘J’?”

Sweet god in heaven, am I on candid camera?

Normally, I can shake off foreign ignorance, but when the person puts their p in my v, my tolerance becomes much lower. I looked at him and said, “Um…Jay-Z?”

Anyway, after a decent dinner (made more delicious by the fact that I didn’t have to cook it or clean up afterwards), we chatted a little bit—or, rather, I listened as he talked. After a lackluster makeout session, I headed home. As I rode the bus (doing my part to help the environment and my wallet), I realized that the Kiwi may be a lighthearted distraction, and even though he’s quick to feed me a meal, he’s not actually bringing anything to the blacktress’ potluck.

Let me explain.

Sojourner has a theory--a philosophy, if you will (will you?). I first developed it a couple of years ago when I former female friend of mine started dating one of my exes who’d hurt me real bad. As I thought about how to handle the situation, I looked back on our friendship up until that point. Over the 4 years I’d known her, she’d slept with one of my crushes, and, when I offered to take her home one night when she was drunk-crying (you know, the worse kind of tears), she put her head in my lap and PUKED ON ME.
We were on minute 7 of a 45-minute car ride.

As I sat in her vomit that night, I knew that this was not someone who was good for me. It wasn't until later that I was able to sort out my feelings.

See, the thing is, life is like a potluck. And the question is: What do you bring to the table in the potluck of my life???

Think about it:

You have a gathering of friends, and tell each one to bring a little something—and what they bring to the table is very telling.

First off, you’ve got the friends who roll up with a main dish—maybe some pasta with pesto, or a hearty salad—maybe even a meat dish. Those are the people you can count on. They’re bringing some sustenance to your table, and by extension, your life.

YUMMERS!!! This kinda goodness comes from a bestie, who knows that you need to be fed--both emotionally and physically.

Then, you’ve got the people who roll up with a couple bottles of red wine—I like them. They may not be the ones you go to when the chips are down, but when you want to know where the party is, they’ve got it. And that, my friends, is vital.

Wine-bringers are the folks who will tell you to go up and talk to that hot guy who is eye-fucking the shit out of you, and if he doesn’t holla back, they’ll buy you a shot. God bless ‘em.


Then, there are the folks who come by with some sort of Entenmann’s cake they clearly got at Duane Reade on the way to your house. I mean, I appreciate the effort, but that’s a little lackluster. It’s like, they forget they had a place to be and at the last minute ducked in to the place near the atm; they know they should bring something, but it’s not really what anyone wants to eat—and it’s full of trans fat, which will kill you.

NOT DELICIOUS. THAT ICING HAS BEEN ON THERE SINCE 1997!

I’ll still take an Entenmann’s cake person in, cause at least they tried, but they won’t be on the permanent party list, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).


Then, you have, like, the people who bring a half-empty bottle of Pepsi that’s going flat and some hummus dip. Those two things don’t even go together! It’s like they were cleaning out their fridge and thought you’d like the leftovers! These are the kinds of friends that dump all over you, give you their crap.
NOT OKAY.

I thought an image of The Hoff humping pepsi would really get my point across. If this image isn't wrong, I don't know what is.

Then, you have the bitches who have the nerve to roll up to your place empty-handed, LATE, and then when they leave they take a plate!!!

[No image on the interweb can describe this horror and disrespect. You will have to imagine it for yourself]

OH HELL TO THE NO!!

You know the ones I’m talking about. The bloodsuckers. The ones who will date your ex and then ask you to tell them it’s okay. It ain’t okay!! That’s not cool!!

I think the Kiwi would fall into the Entenmann’s category. He tries, and brings a little something, but it’s not quite rounding out the meal or bringing a new and exciting flavor, you know? I’ve decided from now on, people need to be coming with some main dishes or wine!! Do not come late and take a plate from my potluck!!

I think I should have majored in Philosophy.

Dog Days of Summer

I am sorry y'all, but I have to rant. I have been trying my best to shake off the years of servitude and oppression that have been heaped upon brown people the world over. I try not to look at Aryan youth and see their evil ancestors, and I try not to cringe when I hear "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer"-- I used to hear "Adolf, the Mustached Hate-Mongerer."

But then I read about a Caucasian hot mess and feel like I need to call it out.

U.S. hotel billionaire Leona Helmsley (not related to BLACKtor Sherman Helmsley, from the hit show "Amen") left her dog-- a WHITE maltese named "Trouble"--TWELVE MILLION DOLLARS.

Okay, now I know White folks love their dogs. But dogs are NOT people, people! I thought it was bad enough when y'all let them lick your face and whatnot, but this is ridiculous. Do you know how many orphans you could feed with 12 million dollars? Shit, do you know how many of ME you could feed with 12 million dollars?!!

This is reason # 248 why WHITE FOLKS DON'T NEED MONEY.

They waste it! And then, when they get guilty, they start shopping at thrift stores. Oh, great, yay! YOU BEAT ALL THE POOR PEOPLE TO THE CLOTHES!

What I love is that Ms. Helmsley was nicknamed the "Queen of Mean," for her "penny-pinching and hard-nosed work ethic." So tell me what kind of flippin' work that dog did to earn 12 million dollars? Did it go down on her on a regular basis? Or is it just getting money for being WHITE?!

Whew. Sorry y'all, I just got a little heated. I can't even handle the bizarro-ness of our world when a single dog has more money than a developing country.

Massa Helmsley, can I get some veal in my puppy chow?!