I have EXHALED!

Whew child! You know these last couple weeks have been straight out of the Mayans Guide to the End of the World (now in paperback). With Hurricane Sandy and the election, I didn't know if it was okay to keep breathing, let alone have dreams! Luckily, I can now write to you with the comfort that comes from knowing that our president is not Mitt Romney and our VP is not Paul Ryan--and that my vagina is still a safe space!

Look, I'm not someone who believes Obama is a god (although I do wish he could be my dad and Joe Biden be my baby daddy!). But I am almost 100% sure that Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan are minions of Satan, so I'm happy with how things went down. For me personally, as an able-bodied, heterosexual, college-educated female in NYC, I'm somewhat sure that if the Republicans had gotten their way, I would have been inconvenienced, but mostly ok--I'd currently be packing up all my shit, figuring out how to break my lease, and asking around about how to find work in Canada (would they love a blacktress?). Plus, Jewboo probably wouldn't want to move and then we'd have to negotiate a long-distance relationship (which would probably work well since I wouldn't be able to afford birth control). I really didn't feel like starting over, so I'm glad I get 4 more years in America. Perhaps by then I will be a powerful celebrity in the vein of Brangelina and able to help the Dems hold it down yet again. 

Of course, many of us have joked about moving to Canada when the political climate got colder than life in the D, but I am for SERIOUS. I know Obama has let folks down, but I never expected him to be a magical negro, so I'm cool. And, quite frankly, I hate that the race was even close in some states. It proves that there's still so much to be done, and it's crucial that the energy that built over this election (and actually carried over on election day) be maintained as the president struggles to work with many Republicans who are dedicated to his demise. I found an NYTimes opinion piece that succinctly articulates why Tuesday's results were so hopeful:

Still, Mr. Obama’s victory did not show a united country. Richer Americans supported Mr. Romney, while poorer Americans tended to vote for Mr. Obama. There also remained clear divisions among voters by gender, age, race and religion.

African-Americans and Hispanics overwhelmingly supported Mr. Obama. White men voted for Mr. Romney; he won among those who said they opposed gay marriage, wanted to outlaw abortion, or favored mass deportation of illegal immigrants. None of those are majority positions in this country anymore. ... The polls were heartening in that they indicated that a solid majority of Americans believe abortion should be legal, and that half of Americans now say their states should recognize marriages between same-sex couples.

Of course, I added the underlines. To me, the election of Romney/Ryan would have been indicative of a growing hatred for minorities of all kinds (ethnic, racial, socioeconomic, sexual orientation)--and I would have had to get the hell out of dodge.

Besides, do we really think it's okay for one man to have his own planet and his own country?

Academically Profiling

Hey gang! What's the haps? I've been trying to live my dreams but it's a slow-going process.

My latest plan: getting on the ol' college-performing circuit. Can you imagine me bringing my stand-up and portmanteaus to institutes of higher education?
I'd like to be their Sister Mary Clarence, telling them the sassy truths they don't expect to hear and helping them find their voice.

 I've written a one-sheet to start peddling to various schools but it's crucial that I focus my efforts. As a blacktress with a Jewboo and a penchant for TMI, there are a myriad of ways I could market myself: Part of the diversity initiative? The best show for Women's History Month? What about a simple B(l)ack to School Special? Where do I fit in? It's just like freshman year all over again! Before I start getting cray, I'm picking a fistful of nearby schools and working outward.

As I look through the lists of Northeast colleges and universities, I find myself judging with the swiftness and hastiness of a member of the NYPD. Other than location (will I do well in racist Boston?), I'm looking at cross-section of graduates. Will a school with 47% of students enrolled in the engineering program be able to handle my truths? What about a place where all the campus photos show students wearing sweaters around their necks? I don't want to be the nerd in an 80s movie surrounded by a bunch of Biffs and Steffs!

If you happen to be reading this and are or ever were a college student, let me know where you think I'd be able to work it. Leave a comment or email me at madblacktress[at]gmail[dot]com. Like a hobo or a deluded scamp, I'm willing to work for food....and I will eat like it's my job.

Inglorious Roommates (not sure what to call this one)

Man, living with this German is a real test of endurance. Note to self: never rent out a room to a foreign PhD student--they're always in the house because they're too busy and too broke to do things.

I've been late to work every day this week because this gal's bogarting the bathroom like she has somewhere to be (which she doesn't, cause she just works in the house all day). The week before, I couldn't eat my breakfast in peace because she decided to make the kitchen her new workspace.

Look, y'all, I'm not a total curmudgeon (all the time), but first thing in the morning, I need my oats, my orange juice, and 30 minutes to steel myself for the day ahead. Before I head out to spend 8 hours doing something I don't enjoy, surrounded by people from the moment I step on the train until I get to sleep, I want half a damn hour sitting upright, catching local news, and not make upbeat small talk with someone I'm not close to. After all, I gotta save that for my coworkers.

I feel like Anne Frank in my own damn house! Every time I thought I heard the bathroom door open, I'd get up to head to the shower, only to find that she was inside the bathroom. Yesterday I had to straight-up knock--and passive-aggressively say, "I have to get ready for work" instead of, you know, "I have to take a shower"--because I couldn't wait any longer. Before knocking, I heard what sounded like some very heavy-duty exfoliating and labored breathing. I hated to interrupt, but if you're doing some sort of Ethan-Hawke-in-Gattaca* type of thing, I'm gonna need you to put the kibosh on that until after I leave the house.

In summation, I don't like living with her, I got to work 2 hours late, and I really like the movie Gattaca.

As you may have noticed, my posting is getting few and far between. It's not that I don't appreciate our relationship or love internet attention, but I'm working on writing a show and I find that I must redirect my humor-writing focus in order to make sure I actually generate material. Trying to create interesting and, hopefully, funny content for the diary, stand-up audiences, and a stage production is a lot to do at once, and I've figured out that the stage-show dreams always fall by the wayside because it's easier to write--and get instant gratification from--stuff for the blog and live audiences. So, in an attempt to get something more substantial going, you may see less of me--you know, like when a friend gets in a new relationship. (It's me and The Artist's Way, and we're head over heels for each other.) But I'll still be telling my truths, so don't give up! As I like to say, I'm goin' on hiatus but don't hate us!


*For those of you unfamiliar with the film with which I was obsessed for much of 1998, here's the clip I'm referring to (I even edited it myself!):

A De-gene-erate
Gattaca at MOVIECLIPS.com

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!

National Sketch/Blog/Monologue Writing Month-- Or, as I like to call it, Time to Get It Together

Happy Tuesday!

God, isn’t it great when you don’t have to be on the plantation five whole days?

I don’t even know what to blog about. My head’s in a fog and I’m waiting for my coffee to take effect. I think what I’ll do is share some of my works in progress.

So, September is National Sketch Writing Month, which challenges the gifted-yet-unmotivated to write 30 sketches in 30 days. I’m not really a sketch writer, but I've decided to co-opt this idea in order to start writing that solo show I’ve been talking about—and get back on track with the blog posts.
Unfortunately, today is the 6th and I’ve only written one sketch, which doesn’t bode well for my attempts to live my dreams, but I’m not gonna give up yet!

Here are some of the ideas I’m working on. Let me know your thoughts. Whatever gets the most positive response will be tomorrow’s post.

The Sista Wife
Logline: Regine marries into a polygamist family and teaches her fellow sister wives how to be strong black women. (already in progress)

Sad Girl Goes to Prom
Logline: We see Sad Girl standing in front of her mirror, giving herself a pep talk before heading out to her high school prom without a date.

The Dead of Night
Logline: We see what would have happened to Bella Swan if she and Edward had broken up or if she’d just aged like a regular human.

MoveOn.org
Logline: A lone woman shows up to a MoveOn.org rally and gets the address wrong. No one’s there and she loses her mind. “Why does no one like me???”

Chris Hansen in His Daily Life
Logline: We see Chris Hansen meeting up with a friend for lunch. He shows up late and follows the same protocol as he would if he were catching a predator.

For example:
[Nate--40-something, kinda overweight White guy--sits at a café table, looking at his watch. A young female waiter approaches.]

Waitress: Hello. Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting?
Nate: Um, sure. I’ll take some tap water.
Waitress: Okay. Could I interest you in some of our homemade lemonade?
Nate: No, thanks. Water will be fine.
Waitress: All right, then. [she exits]
Waitress [off stage]: I'll be right out. I'm just going to change.
Nate: What?
[Chris Hansen enters.]
Nate: Hey Chris. [He rises to give Chris a hug.]
Chris [stiffens, not wanting to be touched.]: Hello. Are you ready to eat?
Nate: Sure—just gotta get the menus first. The waitress will be back in a second.
Chris: Yeah, I saw her. She’s cute, huh?
Nate: Um, I don’t know. I guess.
Chris: Do you know who I am?
Nate: Yes….I’ve known you since college.
Chris: Great, then you know why I’m here.
Nate: To eat lunch?
Chris: Let me read one of your emails.
Nate: Oh god, Chris, come on.
Chris [reading]: “Hey, Chris, can’t wait to catch up. Let’s grab a bite at Dominic’s at 1pm on Thursday. – Nate” Now, what did you mean by that?
Nate: Um….that I wanted to get together.

And so on and so forth…

Hope you had a good weekend!

xoxo,

Blacktress!

What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

How I'll Meet My Lover

Hey friends!

I've been hemming and hawing about what to blog about this week, fearful that I'd end up sued for libel and/or dumped on the streets of Harlem. I realize that the only fair game is celebrities and myself, as well as anyone who won't assume the worst of me. With that, I must share this juicy bit of info I got from a comedy-club booker just moments ago.

Neil Patrick Harris—or, as I like to call him, Heterosexuality's Greatest Loss—lives in Harlem.

Yes, y'all! NPH/HGL was one of our earliest gentrifiers. I knew we had a connection that extended beyond my brain’s fantasyworld.
(Note to self: I'll have to write him a letter and thank him for bringing black folks brunch.)

How did I get this info, you ask? Well, the booker called me about a showcase his club is doing for an NBC casting person. We got to chatting a bit and discovered we lived in the same neighborhood. My response:
“Oh, you’re one of the ones who jacked up our prices!”
Booker: Yup. I’ve been here about 10 years. Doogie Howser is here, too.
Me: Wait, what? SHUT UP. NPH lives in your building?
Booker: Huh?
Me: Neil. Patrick. Harris.
Booker: Yeah.
Me: You are my new best friend. I hope you don’t mind if I stalk you now.

He then goes on to tell me that, although NPH/HGL has a hip pad downtown, he uses his Harlem apartment “as a homebase.” When he was hosting the Tony Awards this year, he had the extended fam staying there, away from the limelight and the paps!

Apparently, he’s lived uptown since his post-Doogie days. Guys, what if NPH was right behind me in line at the Uptown Juice Bar? What if he also bought quarter waters at the bodega?* What if he, too, used to enjoyed a good Jamaican beef patty after a long day? And, most important—has he been to the iHop that opened on 135th street?????

I’ve always felt a kinship with him—like Dr. Howser, I enjoy unwinding at the end of a long day with a good ol’ recap on my computer. Like Barney Stinson, I have a slutty history and daddy issues. And, as a host, NPH and I will go to any length’s to wow the crowd—including rapping.

He did this with zero preparation. It was written on the spot after all the winners were announced. The man is a true professional.

I’m sure I’ve already blogged about my goal to become NPH’s au pair, so I won’t bother outlining that fantasy again. But guys, the fact that NPH is regularly within a mile of me brings me one step closer to achieving my dream! Can you imagine me with the twins?!

Photo courtesy JJSiii

I don’t know how I’ll make this happen. I’m thinking my best bet is through his partner, as he can likely travel incognito and just walks around the neighborhood. I am willing to take my time to befriend him, as it will allow me to know NPH through his lifemate. When we finally meet—hopefully at a bourgie Harlem restaurant offering “Haute Soul Cuisine” or some crap—it will be like we’ve know each other all our lives. The babies will reach for me as if they already know I’m the Corinna Corinna to their Molly Singer.

The whole fam will come to my stand-up shows, and I’ll have to make sure my friends don’t embarrass me in front of NPH, but he’ll be so cool and down to earth, it won’t even be a big deal. We’ll regularly “do brunch” and they’ll call me when the twins are finicky and they don’t know what to do. I bet they’ll even start celebrating Kwanzaa!!!

A gal can dream, right?

Oh, and by the way—I got a slot on the showcase. Hopefully you’ll get to see Blacktress on 30 Rock -- It's about time Tracy Morgan got some competition.


*If you understand this reference, I heart you. Please come to my aid the next time my negrosity is questioned.

Follow the Sound of My Voice!

Hello My Darlings!!!!*

(*I mean that in the wholesome-super-excited-you-are-my-favorites! kind of way, not the creepy, Lady Gaga, clap-for-me-I'm-Tinkerbell kind of way.)

How was your long weekend? I love a good celebration of freedom as much as the next abolitionist, but I must say, getting amped for America isn't really my thing. I find fireworks somewhat boring, the sound of explosions puts me on edge, and, although I will happily attend a stranger's barbecue, I am not eating meat some rando purchased from god knows where at 50% off.

Yes, I'm high maintenance.

I mostly just chilled this weekend, and just as it started to feel like a bit of a vacay, the weekend came to a close and the Sunday--or, in this case, Monday--Shakes started to roll in. I am, however, in a really good mood this morning, primarily because.....I AM RECORDING MY FIRST VOICEOVER GIG AT 2PM!

Did I tell you guys I was taking voiceover classes? This has been going on for about 3 months, so you certainly should know, but then again, there's nothing racist, awkward, or dramatic about it, so it may not have crossed my mind as a blogging option.

I've been taking lessons with a strong black woman who wrote the book on working as a voiceover artist--literally, she wrote the book:

And she even got Niles Crane to do the Foreword! This woman makes it happen!

She's been in the biz 20 years, is really nice, and she's a strong black woman. She's like a supportive Vanessa Williams figure, guiding me through the unknown land of voiceover, helping me get over my fear of failure and need for perfection, laughing whenever I ask her to adopt me, and getting me gigs! The lady's paying for herself, and I don't even have my demo reel yet!

This gig came through one of her other students, who was asked if she knew an African American voice talent for a non-union radio spot. On Wednesday I sent along my one and only clip--something I'd recorded for my job (you know the plantation puts me on double duty with no compensation), and my comedy reel, thinking it was no skin off my teat to attach a file. I didn't expect to get it, considering there was nothing "ethnic" about my voice, and the promo wasn't at all what they were looking for.

So you can imagine my surprise when I got a phone call Friday morning, saying I was booked!!!!

Best. Friday. Ever.

It's a health insurance ad for regional radio in the Midwest. I've got one line, I'll be in the studio for 30 minutes, and I'll be getting some hundreds of dollars!!!! Y'all, this might become my new dream. Voiceover is hard to break into, but lucrative as all get-out. When the producer called, she told me the price as though I'd be offended. "It's just one line, I know, but you're still important!"

Um, for half an hour of work, you're paying me more than I make in 2 days of toiling for former DQ massa. You don't have to remind me that I'm important!!!

That's at 2pm today. Of course, my biggest concern this morning was what to wear. I know, I know, this is for radio--and boy, don't I got the face for radio! (har, har)--but I still gotta bring it on: all or nothing, you know?

How are you this fine Tuesday morn?

Just Another Panicked Monday

Good morning, gentle readers.
I come to you today with a heart full of fear.

This morning the receptionist from the neurologist’s office called, asking me to come in for a follow-up appointment regarding my MRI. I am freaking the fuck out.

What can’t he tell me over the phone? Does he have to sit me down face-to-face so that he can hold me as I sob? I had the MRI on 5/24, so if it was really life-or-death, I would have heard back before now, right? My head was actually killing me yesterday, so I’m even more worried. When I asked the receptionist if I was going to die, she said no, but she certainly doesn’t have the security clearance to know for sure.

I cannot have a brain tumor right now—I’m just starting to follow my dreams!

This has me thinking of my life to date. I have begun composing several bucket lists based on how long I’d have to live.

Blacktress’ 3-Year Bucket List

• Quit job. Tell former-drag-queen boss about himself.
• Travel to Italy. Use the word “hospitaliano” at least once.
• Write a memoir titled “Eat Eat Eat”.
• Write 4 screenplays.
• Earn Oscar nomination for one of them.
• Have Ben Affleck and Matt Damon accept the award in my stead.
• Get a ½-hour special on Comedy Central
• Meet Nick Kroll
• Take a ferry to Staten Island (what goes on over there?????)
• Hang out with Marc Maron on the cat ranch.
• Find a closeted celebrity in need of a beard. Act as his beard until I become sickly and unattractive.
• Become best friends with Kathy Griffin.
• Get married, A Walk to Remember style.

Blacktress’ 18-month Bucket List

• Quit job. Tell former-drag-queen boss about himself.
• Find a wealthy benefactor to help me live my dreams in my final months.
• Write one screenplay that sells. Use money to produce the biopic Blacktress Like Me, in which I will star. Angela Bassett will play my mother.
• Visit every aquarium in the country.
• Go back to my native land of Africa and finally cash-in on that princess status I’ve been hearing about all these years. I’m probably just the ruler of a goat tied to a shady tree, but I’ll get to wear dramatic head wraps.
• Perform stand-up across the country, opening for such acts as Glenn Beck and Donald Trump. [this would be more of a stage-hijacking, but equally awesome.]
• Take a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. (what goes on over there?????) Use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.
• Hang out with Marc Maron on the cat ranch.
• Meet Kathy Griffin.

Blacktress’ 6-month Bucket List

• Quit job. Tell former-drag-queen boss about himself.
• Find a wealthy benefactor to help me live my dreams in my final months.
• Try to get a guest role on The Office as Stanley’s daughter or niece.
• Find a way to get on the Today Show and be interviewed by Matt Lauer.
• Find every man that’s done me wrong and tell him about himself.
• Take a ferry to Cape Cod. (what does it feel like to be rich?????)
• Hang out with Marc Maron on the cat ranch.
• Write and produce the solo show To Be Young, Gifted, & Blacktress. Receive posthumous Tony nomination, even though the show will not be performed on or off Broadway. (it’s just that good!)
• Meet Kathy Griffin.

Blacktress' Back-up Bucket List

Mop

Ice

Child-Size Beach

Aluminum

Construction Square Plastic

Gallon Square

Elevator

As you can see, there are several goals that repeat themselves. I will also be creating a will, in which I will bequeath several items to friends and acquaintances—such as the emergency contraceptive I received from Planned Parenthood and never used; Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs; and the entire Babysitters’ Club collection, including the mysteries and summer specials.

The Bride of Francostein? (too much?)

It’s only 9am, but so much has happened in the last 12 hours that I feel it is behoovy of me to blog. This is a bit unorthodox, I know, seeing as we’ve settled into a nice Mon/Wed/Fri schedule.

So, on my way home last night I was waiting for forever and a day for the train and I noticed a petite man with a tight bod wearing hearing aids.
Okay, before this sounds like a creepy fetish, let me backtrack: We all know that after I graduated from college my first job was working as the voicing actor with the National Theater of the Deaf, during which time I shared a bedroom with a 40-year-old Deaf, lesbian juggler named Pinky, right?

Well, there it is.

After one of the NTD shows, I met this actor who was really nice. It was at a time when I was really strong as a signer, and I remember him complimenting my skills. He was in his mid-20s, a professional actor, and gave me his business card—which I thought was so cool because it had his headshot on it. Because this was one of the few pleasant experiences I had while touring with the Deaf—and because I’m a low-level hoarder—I kept that headshot-business card until about 2 months ago.

This would explain why I recognized him, even from the back.
I was in a good mood after seeing a great storytelling show, and had already accosted someone that night, so I was on a roll. I got the guy’s attention and asked him his name. It was him!!!!!

We started chatting, and I realized just how rusty my ASL is. He was really nice about it and patient, and I was totally geeking out. I know it sounds cheesy, but I really love signing—it’s expressive, it’s full-body, the language appeals to the blacktress in me—and I’ve missed doing it. There was, however, an awkward moment, when he told me about his plans to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650 mile trail starting from Mexico to Canada. I signed, “Why do you want to go outside and pretend to be dirty and poor?”

Since signing is about thinking in pictures and almost a muscle memory thing, it’s very common to use the wrong sign by thinking only of the word. However, there’s really no excuse for the fact that, instead of the sign for ‘poor,’ I made the sign for ‘penis.’

“Well, I guess penises can make you dirty,” he said. What a peach!

Turns out he lives just around the corner from me. I hope we’ll be best friends when he comes back from his crazy-ass hike—unless he becomes too crunchy and spends the next 2 years talking about his communion with nature.

Although that was a magical moment, I was actually inspired to blog when I woke up this morning after having a crazy-ass dream (you know how much I love those)

In this dream, actor, scholar, and Hollywood’s favorite “Renaissance Man” James Franco, was the managing editor of my magazine. I handed him a draft of one of my editor's notes to review, and he gave it a once over. In his dopey “Pineapple Express” way of his, he said, “Where’s the passion? Why aren’t you into it?” He wanted flowery prose about the beauty of representational art.

“I can add that later,” I said. “It’s easier to put the flowery in later than write too much to start. You can just mark it up with places you’d like some ‘passion’ and I’ll put it in on edit.”
He hands me back the page a few minutes later and he’s crossed out, like, 90% of it. I roll my eyes, and start writing again. Ugh, Francostein, you're a real PITA (Pain In The Ass)

I'm James Franco. I am a Renaissance Man. I've got a bear in a head lock.

I hand the new draft over to James Franco, my new boss, and watch him read it. He nods a few times, then proceeds to cross out the entire middle paragraph. I start muttering curses and go back to my desk.

Look at him, all judgmental and shit. His eyes are practically saying, "You call that writing? I have an advanced degree from Columbia."

Cut to the interior of Duane Reade, a drugstore chain in the city. I’m in line with KWalsh (yes, Katie, you appear in my dreams), and I’m bitching about James Franco. I am so annoyed and frustrated that for some reason I’m sliding on the floor and grabbing KWalsh’s leg, and yelling, JAMES FRANCO IS A TASK MASTER!!!

Then I woke up.

Let me take a moment to say that I am not attracted to James Franco in any way. I think he looks dirty and mean, has a molestache, and his eyes disappear when he smiles. So why he would appear in my REM cycle, I don’t know.

Ugh, gross.

In other news: I’m suffering from a sex-related knee injury. Who am I?

The Children Are Our Future

Hey Gang, What do you think of the redesign? I was getting sick and tired of the blah background, so I decided to change it up--thoughts?

Monday night I met with a publicist to discuss ways to take the blacktress to the next level. She was a very Earth Mother, actualize-your-potential Jewess, and I kinda have a friend crush (and not just because she met with me free of charge). She said a lot of things that were good, but mostly it was about experimenting and tracking changes. She advised that I try different things, but don't just disregard the results--really look at them and write them down. Like, if I do a show in BK, how many referrals do I get? What's kind of response do I get when I host versus doing a short set? How does blogging drive traffic to www.YouTube.com/BlacktressComedy? Only by looking at the results will I get a game plan, be able to set realistic goals, and measure success.

It may sound obvious, but when it takes all my strength to make myself wash the damn dishes, there's no suggestion that's too small. So, in the spirit of experimenting and tracking changes, I'm setting up a blogging schedule--even when I don't feel funny, or feel too busy, or don't want to risk losing my job because I'm being inappropriate, I am going to put up a post every other day. So it begins...

Luckily, I've got something to work with. Yesterday I went to my old high school to meet with an admin about becoming a tutor (blacktress needs to get a well-paying side hustle, and nothing says 'cash-in-hand' like Upper East Side private school tutoring). I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but my private schooling on the UES began when I was a mere 10 years old, and began what would become a lifetime of studies INSIDE CAUCASIA. It wasn't just hard being bigger and blacker than everyone else, but I didn't have a nanny or a kate spade bag AND I wore a size medium (which made me an object of ridicule--I kid you not). Within the first semester I quickly learned that I had to get really funny really fast, and I wouldn't be dating anyone until college, if ever.
I think it could have been when a girl said to me on the first day of music class, "if you don't stop being the little bitch you are, you're never going to make friends here."
If by "bitch" she meant "painfully shy," then I guess she was right.

Needless to say, as I made my way up Park Avenue yesterday, I felt a bit awkward (and really old). By the time I got to the administrator's office, I had an eating disorder. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear Lady Gaga playing--ah, the freedom of private schooling. I saw a poster on the wall advertising the UJIMA* club, which spearheaded the Kenya Project.
Where was UJIMA when I was a lass?! I could have used some inspiration and outreach!
My memories are quieted by a sudden stampede of children flooded into the stairwell, and I started to making my scared noise (which sounds a lot like this:

They were just so full of energy and life--I couldn't take it.

Our meeting was brief, but I'm hopeful that something will come of it--even though it might not happen until the fall.

I went upstairs to visit a teacher (the one whose son has been deeply influenced by a blacktress), and the next thing I know, she's playing my YouTube for everyone in the history department. Students desperately trying to learn couldn't help but listen in.
"Does this have profanity in it?" one boy asked.
"Dude, I'm dropping F-bombs like Hiroshima and Nagasaki!"
I think it was the term "wintercourse" that made him leave the room.

It was kind of surreal to sit in a room where I used to have nervous breakdowns about Robespierre and have people watching my stand-up. It was even more surreal when one of the teaching fellows (a young black woman who went to Dartmouth and can handle Sojourner's Truths) asked me if I'd be interested in being a mentor to a current student.

There is nothing I want more to help another young, gifted, and black mind traverse the treacherous land of CAUCASIA. I told her to give me someone who was really cool, and who needed to be empowered. I'm already getting together a reading list, which so far includes Audre Lorde, bell hooks, and June Jordan.

Just think of it, guys--we'll sit around, braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. I'll rent The Women of Brewster Place and show her our history. It'll be, like, the ultimate safe space!

In other news: Anybody got a job for me that'll pay real money AND give me the flexibility to live my dreams?



*Every time I type "Ujima", both Microsoft Word and Blogger suggest I change it to JEMIMA. Is the Microsoft Office Suite racist???

Sojourner Truth - THE MUSICAL!!!

Last night, I received the best news ever.

A musical is being made about my life.
It's like Black History Month 2010 was made for me.
In the footsteps of such heavyweights as Ray, Ali, and every Spike Lee Joint ever made, comes a musical story of truth, justice, and African-American way.

For those who can't bear to follow a link and be taken away from this page, here's the run-down:

Old Deerfield Productions and Jane Hanson Productions LLC will create and mount a new opera, working title Truth, to be offered in a workshop in July of 2011 at the Reid Theatre in Deerfield followed by a full-scale production with orchestra at the Academy of Music Theatre in Northampton, MA in October of 2011.
Truth will follow the trajectory of Sojourner’s life beginning in 1826, when she walked toward freedom with her baby, Sophie, on her back.

Through the story of this important black woman’s quest for freedom and equal rights, the opera will illuminate America’s complicated march toward the same goal, a march that continues in Sojourner’s footsteps today.


I won't keep going, because it's boring to hear the story of my own life told to me, but you get the picture!!

It's a Sojourner Truth musical--I think I'll call it a TRUTH-ical.
(Not to be confused with Seussical! the musical)

Can you handle this awesomeness?!

Alas, they've already tapped another blacktress for my role--I guess they needed some distance, didn't want me breathing down their necks with my own truth. You can't take "artistic license" when you've got the real Sojo on set!

I think I'll start a petition requesting that I play the role of young Sojo - or at least recite the "Ain't I A Woman?" speech. After all, I penned that jam.

OK, I just wanted to share the good news, gang. Donate some money if you can--every little bit helps, and the TRUTH is priceless!

xoxo,
Blacktress

Therapy--Without Health Insurance!

Tonight I had a stand up gig as part of a benefit for Planned Parenthood--or, as the young hip, pro-choice kids call it, PPNYC. I was a bit nervous, as I was unsure how the PPNYC crowd would appreciate tales about Ps in Vs without Cs. I knew abortion jokes were out (obvi), but the target demographic was unclear. I got there at 6pm, where I was preceded by two elderly women--could they handle Sojourner's truths? I also knew there was a political bent to the show, but I'm not a political comic (my existence is resistance, people!). I went in with some energy, but as I waited for the show to start, my energy started to wane.

I got the gig through a lady I know who attended the same high school and college as me, but we didn't really know each other because she was two years older. My new plan for world domination requires I say yes to everything I'm asked to do, and this show was no exception. I figured, being a client of PPNYC's Bronx location (where I get free BC--aka, my 'reminder I'm not getting any' pill), I might as well give back.

Some things I learned tonight:
PPNYC, all in favor of a good abbreviation, does appreciate a cautionary tale of a P in a V without a C.
The greatest advocates for women's health are Caucasian lesbians.
Always end the night with a drag queen.

For serious.

After the show, I met up with some of my main gays in Hell's Kitchen, and we popped over to Therapy, a gay club/bar/restaurant that I've always heard of, but never visited. I wasn't feeling too great about my set, so I was rather excited to distract myself with loud music and pretty boys.

Turns out, Therapy lives up to its name, as I was able to turn my frown upside down instantly. Tonight was "Cattle Call," a sort of talent show where contestants (all singers) competed for a $150 cash prize. The host was none other than Peppermint, a fabulous Black drag queen who brought the house down.

So, you guys know how when I was little I wanted to be a drag queen, right? As a young aspiring blacktress, I'd stay up past my bed time in the fall of 1996 to catch a glimpse of The Rupaul Show on VH1. I was obsessed. While I wore braces, glasses, and over-sized sweatshirts with Mickey Mouse on them, Ru was so glamorous and confident and just...well, I didn't know what it call it at the time, but now I know the only word I can use is fierce! I just loved how tall she was, her hilarious puns, and her love of inappropriate touching.

(I can't tell you how long it took me to choose a picture of Ru that I loved. I think if I did, it would scare you.)

Come to think of it, these are the same things people seem to appreciate about me nowadays, so perhaps I'm on my way. Yay!

Anyway, Peppermint--who is gearing up for her European album launch--spoke to my heart when she performed Aretha Franklin's "Think" and followed it up with Lisa Loeb's "Stay." She spoke to my dual racial identity, bringing in the sassy soul and the wispy acoustic guitar with equal aplomb.

After the show was over, I ran into Peppermint on her way out of the bathroom. I believe my exact words were, "Ohmygod, I want to be you, you are amazing, can I be your roadie on your European tour?"

I heart her so hard it's not even funny.

She laughed and hugged me, and I told her I was a blacktress. I realized that I can learn alot from the DQs I love--and I don't just mean how to be fabulous. The good performers work the crowd, and their energy is relentless. They know how to Bring it On, Bring it on Again (the sequel), and Bring it on: All or Nothing (seriously, they never stop with these movies. It's Star Wars for tween girls).

I need to bring that A game to all my stand up from now on, and regardless of how the audience reacts, I'll know that I gave 140%. And maybe, if I'm lucky, a delicate young blacktress will approach me outside of the restroom and tell me she wants to be me.

Ah, to sleep, perchance to dream...

Mount Isa, Here I Come!!

I think one of my favorite things about gmail is that it’s always thinking. I first noticed this when I was using one of those cool, hip, “emoticons” in a gchat a year or so ago. I wanted to let my gal pal know I was smiling, so I typed a semicolon and open parenthesis. Instantly, it rotated to form a knowing smile.

Gmail is watching.

I also love that it reads your emails and puts ads and article links in the margins that relate to key words in the text. All my talk of Australia has provided me with several cheap travel websites, as well as info on the AU consulate. But yesterday, I got the best tip-off from Gangsta Mail ever.

“Outback Mayor Seeks ‘ugly duckling’ Women”

In a remote mining town called Mount Isa, men outnumber women 5 to 1. In a recent interview with a local paper, town mayor John Molony urged women to move there and help end the shortage. I think my favorite quote of his is:

"Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness," Molony told the Townsville Bulletin newspaper last week.

"Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits. Really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan," Molony said.

HAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, Molony, you’re hilarious!!! I love the idea that it’s somehow crazy that a “lass who is not so attractive” could still have a “wide smile on her face”—as though, being less than a supermodel, she should know nothing of happiness. I also think he’s trying to point out that what she’s so happy about is that when she goes into the pub, she’s got her pick of 10 strapping coal-mining dudes, all offering her a bottle of Toohey’s and some of their good sperm.

Of course, people in Oz are now outraged, with some even calling that the mayor resign.

The Ozzie listservs are all a-buzz, and I've been reading the comments to get a sense of my future people. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorites:

I've travelled all over Australia and all over the World, and I've always believed that Mt Isa has a really high percentage of Real Beauties. Some same Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder , I've also heard lately that Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beer Holder. It is a small town and a lot of loving realationships* commence in our pubs and clubs.

Holla at “beauty in the eye of the BEER holder”!! I’ve been saying that for years, and it’s about damn time someone agreed with me.
Yes, the mayor is offensive and cracked out. Yes, he should probably not be allowed to speak in public for a long time. Yes, he is offensive to women.

But I can’t help but thinking that any place where loving relationships commence in pubs and clubs is where I need to be. And any town that’s calling for the “ugly ducklings” is in desperate need of a blacktress.

I am so excited to blow this popstand!!! I was going to be a good employee and give my massa 1-month’s notice (and also free myself from having to pretend like I care for the remainder of my days), but I don’t think I can do that and still holla at my vacay time. But this means that for two more weeks, I will have to smile and nod and “put in effort” (lame). But, if I can make my way to freedom and become one of the most inspiring black women of all time, I can certainly stick it out on this plantation a few weeks longer.

I’ve been reading so many books on the land down under (you know, where the women glow and men plunder) so that I can master the foreign land quickly upon arrival. The slanguage is the best part—Aussies say the darndest things!! Thanks to Deets for the great book “Live and Work in Australia,” which has everything I’ll ever need to know. Some Aussie gems include:

apples: meaning, OK, as in “She’ll be apples, mate”
flash as a rat with a gold tooth: overdone, overdressed. [I really hope people actually use this phrase.]
frosty, tinny, neck oil, singing syrup, etc.: beer. [I love the use of ‘etc,’ as though there is a natural sequence of phrases that would come after these to describe the frothy fermented goodness of beer]
wouldn’t do it to a Jap on ANZAC Day: wouldn’t do it to your worst enemy under dire circumstances. A reference to the Japanese enemy during WWII, ANZAC Day is a national holiday to commemorate the contribution of Australian war veterans to various campaigns.

They are so colorful in their lingo, and abbreviate almost everything. Seeing as I can’t stop saying “totes” and “obvi,” I think I’ll be apples down there (see how I incorporated my new vocab so flawlessly?).




*note his misspelling here. I actually think it’s a CORRECT spelling of what we’re all looking for: a REALationship—none of this half-assed, late-night-texting crap. Man up, commit to loving me for eternity, and let's get this going!

Sojourner and the Giant Peach

Last week I decided the only way to get my groove back was to get back on the dating scene I know and love—the internet dating scene. As many of you know (and if you don’t know, click here!), there’s nothing that revs my engine quite like the boost of an internet date. The reasons for this are manifold:

1. I am able to sharpen my social skills by meeting new people
2. My sense of superiority is increased when I receive emails from people who are unable to spell-check, telling me that they are “realy layed back and into all kind of stuff.”
3. I am reminded that there are a whole host of single men out there, just looking to have a relationship…or put their P in your V—and you’ve gotta be able to tell the difference.
4. Meeting randoms in heavily populated, well-lit environments is a good way to prepare for traveling to a foreign land where I’ll have to make new friends ASAP and stretch myself to my limits.

Last week, while bored on the plantation, I put an ad up on the personals section of CL—you know, CrazyList.org. Within minutes, the inbox of my alias email address was flooded with replies.

In the words of Sally Field during her Oscar acceptance speech, “You like me! You really like me!”

Unfortunately, not too many of my “suitors” were suitable—although I was quite glad I’d put in my post, “For the love of god, do NOT send me pictures of your man parts.” I think that really helped cut down on the potential pervy responses.

Of the 20 responses, about 2 of them were worth gchatting with and getting to know. And boy, was I glad I did. Take, for instance, J.R.

JR is a young man who lives outside of the city and was randomly checking out craigslist. His first email to me was:
Im Jacob... and i love you already... well from what i hear...

i cant wait to find out if you are really there ... cause you sound cool as hell.

I mean, how could I not respond? Sure, he could have capitalized here and there, and I appreciate a good apostrophe as much as the next gal, but in these two lines he displayed three very important traits: (1) the willingness to jump the gun and tell a stranger he loves them; (2) the knowledge of my innate coolness; (3) the propensity for over-using ellipses.

Jacob and I started gchatting and I learned that he was attending culinary school and would gladly cook for me. After about 20 minutes, I logged off, not feeling any sparks, but excited at the prospect of getting a free meal in the near future. The next morning, the eager beaver messaged me again. The conversation that followed epitomizes everything I love about meeting people on the internet. Note: there have been no changes made to excerpted text below (note the typos). Everything you read is as it originally appeared. Read and enjoy.

Jacob: do you mind if i b other you/

me: why not at all
[this shows you how willing I am to kill time while in the workplace. Lord knows I didn’t need to be chatting with a random at 10am]

Jacob: i had a really weird dream

me: what happened?

Jacob: growing up there was this really hip cd store called plastic fantastic....that was the setting
and they would let you listen to cd;s before you bought them
so cuba gooding was recomending me crappy music

me: hahahha
[Why is he telling me this?]

JR:and then i went outside... and it was my old soccer team from high school... but they were playing football
and my dog was the quarterback ... standing up like a person and throwing the ball

me: you mean like air bud?
air bud 3: golden receiver?

JR: so cuba comes out and gives me the keys to his moped
yeh exactly and he tells me i need to go get more water for the team
and i end up riding my moped ..... being chased by robin hood the serial killer through my freinds house

me: my god
jr, this is intense!

JR: i k now it was terrible
so i found refuge in a pizza place

me: well, it was nice of cuba to give you his moped
i've always liked him in films

JR: hes ok
bad taste in music
i woke up before i got my pizza... still scared of robbin hood

me: which robin hood?
men in tights?
or the animated one?

JR: neither... its like gotham city robin hood with a sythe
and a really big jacket like the talking heads
so then i took a piss cause thats what men do in the morning
and threw the ball for my dog
ate some breakfast.... and then i remembered youd be here

me: jr
you are a peach.

Google search: James and the Giant Peach. I think I kinda look like the little boy.

Dream Lover

As many of you may already know, I’m kinda into Harry Potter. I love his magic wand, I want his snake to Slyther-in, you know—the usual. While this is always good for a laugh among friends, I’m starting to wonder if this obsession is getting to be a little unhealthy. I woke up in the middle of the night after a terrible nightmare. I struggled to go back to sleep, but was unable to. This morning, I talked to my fellow scorned woman about what happened, unable to go on with my day until this wicked dream was out in the open.

Thank god for gchat, or else I would have had to wait until a reasonable hour to discuss this via telephone.

me: oh my god, i had such bad nightmares last night
seriously, i had to wake up and put on ‘flight of the conchords’ on dvd just to calm down

K: oh my god

me: but the dream was this:
luna lovegood was possessed by lord voldemort and there was nothing i could do
so i texted harry, ron, and hermione
because i can't even speak parseltongue
(katie, i'm dead serious)

K: shut up-- you had a nightmare about harry potter

me: and luna was all pasty and speaking in scary demonic languages, kinda like linda blair in THE EXORCIST
and i was carrying her downstairs to the living room, terrified.
and then harry texted me back

Kathleen: texting with harry potter
egads

me: and harry was like, "reply to her in the voice she uses and tell her to stop"
and then i did i said "impendimentum"
what does that mean?!
and luna acted like she was okay
but then she wasn't

K: wow this is very detailed

me: and she used dark magic to knock me and my mom down
it really was quite detailed and intense.
i woke up in a cold sweat
maybe i had a vision
maybe i'm connected to the dark lord
maybe....
this should be a blog post?