He Is My Patronus

Just wanted to share a great clip from one of my favorite comics, Hari Kondabolu. No better way to celebrate BHM with a man who always speaks truth to power.

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?????

Can She Make it Anymore Obvious?

So, I kind of detest Avril Lavigne.

I just wish she didn't think she was so clever and interesting. She's just not. I am. She's not. I've decided these are facts. Example? Lyrics from the hit song "SK8er Boi":

She was a girl/ He was a boy/ Can I make it anymore obvious?/ He was a punk/ She did ballet?/ What more can I say?

Um.... what?
There's so much more she could say. The question is, can she make it any more heteronormative?

Yet for some reason, she is famous and I am forced to hear her off-pitch voice screeching in my ears.

The latest assault: "When You're Gone." I saw the video for the first time this morning. As the title indicates, it's about missing someone you love and wanting them back. My first problem came when I saw the three relationships that are meant to epitomize feelings of longing:
1. an elderly man whose wife has just died.
2. a preppy girl torn from the arms of her punk-ish boyfriend by her harsh mother. (um, SK8er Boi part 2, anyone?)
3. a pregnant woman whose husband is overseas in Iraq.

How Avril can even think missing some dude is the same as an old man losing his only love and preparing to go to her funeral is beyond me. Is this some attempt to appeal to the AARP crowd? I don't think it's gonna happen, April-- yeah, I'm calling her April. F this quirky S.

I am also sick and tired of seeing Iraq on commercial television. For some reason, I find it so offensive-- kinda like the movies Amistad and the television miniseries Roots. There are certain atrocities that cannot be rendered on film in an attempt to "give us access." Nothing you can create that requires a commercial break can accurately portray the suffering-- or reality-- of historical OR CURRENT events. It's just so rude.

I digress.

At the end of the video, the old man goes to his wife's funeral, the preppy girl survives, and the pregnant wife, worried sick over her husband, finds out she's all right. YAY!

My problem with this is:

The pregnant woman finds out her husband is all right VIA TEXT MESSAGE! It reads:
I'm okay. I miss u.

Um... can we get text messages from Iraq?
If so, then we should be getting a whole lot more information.
Do the soldiers have unlimited nights and weekends, too?
Why are we having children send poorly written, inspirational construction paper creations via snail mail if they've got the T-Mobile text plan?

If they can text and keep in touch, is Avril implying that the war isn't so bad after all?

Is Avril Lavigne a Canadian supporter of George Bush?
See for yourself. And think about it.