SHOCKtober Fest!*

*This title in no way relates to the following post.

Guys, I am so sorry it's been forever since I posted. There's been so much going on--much of it ripe for bloggery--but I've been so busy that sitting down and writing it all out has been impossible. Now, of course, it's been 2 weeks and there's no way I can condense it all. But let's give it the ol'-liberal-arts-college try, shall we?

9/29/11
I. am. reeling.

I just finished the final book in The Hunger Games trilogy and I can't even cope. I actually re-read the last three pages twice before finally closing the book. It was simply so intense I couldn't let it be over. A tightly wrought political thriller for the tween set has somehow turned my world upside down. Katniss Everdeen is further proof that you don't have to be black to be a strong black woman.

I am still shaken and stirred, with a twist of lime in me. Suzanne Collins took my breath away, Top Gun style. I've decided to add her to my list of (s)heroes.

10/1/11
I'm heading to LA, guys! Los Angeles! The city of angels and demons and most of the cast of Angels & Demons. I'm going to a voiceover event produced by my VO coach in New York. I'm not one for 48-hour jet-sets, but my mom thinks I need to invest in my dreams, which means attending this event, so I will do so. I have no idea what to expect.

10/3-10/5

LA is cool, but I couldn't live here. I did, however, meet a pretty blacktress from Texas who moved here to become a star. She was very domineering, which I really didn't mind all that much. I think the best part of our forced closeness was her gory, detailed account of her stalker attack a year ago. Of course, it was really terrifying and upsetting, but my first thought, as she explained that her Colgate smile was actually porcelain (because her stalker attacked her and knocked her teeth out), was "Oh my god, you had a stalker? That is so A-list. Have you sent a treatment to Lifetime (television for women)?"

The highlight of my trip was meeting hotel employee Tre Fabrice, who moved to LA three years ago "for the fashion." When I asked where he moved from, he revealed that he was a Detroit native.

I immediately began singing T-Baby's anthem.
"Nah, I'm mad at that," he said as he stretched out on the lobby couch (why wasn't he working?). "Everybody been makin' fun of me for that."

I asked him if he'd read any of my cousin's hood tales and he said no. I linked him up to Amazon and he was quite taken with the synopsis of his latest page-turner. After giving him my cousin's info--he wanted to contact him about being involved in a non-profit he's starting (I kid you not)--he urged me to stay in New York City. I told him he didn't have to worry.

LA is so intense with the healthiness. My friend and I went to a diner and even the diner was on Atkins. I asked for a glass of milk to go with my "7-grain pancakes," and the waiter goes, "Would you like soy milk, almond, milk, rice milk, hemp--"

I want milk milk, Los Angeles! Give me some skim stuff out of an animal I can find on a farm!

Don't get me wrong, y'all--I'm not against vegetarians and vegans, and I do believe animals have feelings. I just cannot stand a high-and-mighty non-meat eater acting like they can't wait to spend their 75th birthday jumping on my bloated belly like it's a trampoline. Just cause you don't eat meat doesn't make you a life-winner. How can it be okay to turn a bean into a nugget??? Everyone was so into their substitutes. And those bitches LOVE. TO. JUICE.

You know, drink a mixture of vegetables and fruits as a meal.

Speaking of juicing, they also love using nouns as verbs--juice. summer. veg. UGH.

That about sums it up, I guess. There's more I'd love to share, but ever since the blog became an un-safe space (needing to defend and explain every turn of phrase and humor-motivated generalization, etc), I'll just cut to the present......which brings us to today.

Last night I did a set at Broadway Comedy Club and it might have been one of my worst stage moments ever. I ate it so hard last night.

That’s comedy speak for “getting no laughs and having no jokes hit”—taken from the idea of “eating shit.”

Being on stage was painful. I felt like Carrie at the prom—except, in this case, I wanted them to laugh and they wouldn’t. Those bright stage lights may have well been pig’s blood, as they soaked me in a sticky liquid of shame and self-loathing that I still can’t get off.

Carrie, there’s no amount of Dove body wash that’ll get that scent out of your hair. After all, Dove is for real women, and you’re clearly a shell of yourself.

As I stood on stage, staring into the faces of white people who didn’t know who Harriet Tubman was or why “Caucasia” is a funny word, I had no way of winning them back. This was a set for TV and I wasn’t supposed to address the audience—meaning, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS?!” wasn’t gonna fly for the cameras. It was just really hard because I’d killed it (comedy speak for “slaying the audience with one’s rapier wit) the night before at Therapy, one of Hell’s Kitchen’s best gay bars. I mean, applause breaks and everything. I felt like I was at home.
Honestly, y’all, it was a straight-up Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List moment.


I know exactly how she feels.


Tonight I'm doing a set at another club, this time with family and friends in attendance. Not just mamadukes but also some of her coworkers, which makes me really nervous. I mean, it’s one thing to fail, but to embarrass my mom in front of her friends….let’s just say I better bring it on all or nothing like the love-child of Gabrielle Union and Hayden Panetierre.

I'm sorry I've been gone so long--I won't do it again.

L.Y.L.A.S!

--Blacktress

What Do You Want From Me, World???????

Hey y'all!
How was your weekend? Hanging with my Jewish fam this weekend was fun and far too short. I love acting like a tourist in the suburbs, and the fam is happy to oblige. Not only did we get dessert at Dairy Queen and Sonic, we also saw some Amish riding down the street in a horse and buggy. I have gotten my suburban fix for the remainder of the year.

[A PORTION OF THIS POST HAS BEEN REMOVED DUE TO READERS NOT KNOWING HOW TO BE COOL. ONE PERSON COULDN'T BEHAVE, AND NOW THERE'S NO EMOTIONAL CONNECTION FOR ANYONE.]

After all, I'm not Bradley Cooper.

Although he is limitless, my mom wouldn’t want me to marry him.

I got into work this morning (an hour late—score!) and found a FB message from THE AUSTRALIAN?
Remember him, y’all?
Nope, not the redheaded Weasley.
Not the racist one.
Nope, not Kebab Boy.
Not the American guy who went to Australia after our first two dates and never called again.
The first one. The man that started it all.

I fucking hate facebook.
As you know, it all went horribly wrong with the Aussie, with my visit to his homeland resulting in a complete severance of contact (funny, that). I still think of him with a twinge, but it happens once every three months, and is only in a, “I hate that he thinks I’m the crazy one!” kind of way, not a swoony way. I haven’t spoken to him since we had a White president.
Turns out two NYC pals I haven’t seen in ages just had their babies and I sent along my congratulations via wall post (as you do in this internet age). For this act of pseudo-human-interaction, I received the following:











Subject: Hello

Hey [BLACKTRESS],
How are you? Saw you on [new parents’] photo post.
Hope you're doing great.
[D-bag]

WHY?????? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?
Hey, Folger’s, I got a new jingle for you:
“The worst part of wakin’ up / Is an asshole who won’t shut up!”

I think what's most insane about it is the attempt at a casual hello--as if seeing me on a "photo post" was the same as seeing me at a party or something. And he hopes I'm doing "Great." What if I wrote back and said, "I'm doing good, not great--gotta drain my labia three times a day."
Hmmm.....perhaps that would prevent him from contacting me forever.....

Of course, I couldn't deal with this alone at my desk. I promptly alerted KWalsh to the situation.

me: THE AUSTRALIAN FRIENDED ME ON FACEBOOK
KWalsh: ewwwwwwwwwww
me: DUDE, I CAN'T FUCKING COPE WITH THIS WORLD
ok, i'm done with the caps
KWalsh: haha
me: and his profile pic is a glamour shot
like, out of control
what do you think his mental illness is?
KWalsh: hahahaha
being australian?
KWalsh: i think men have amnesia about the shit they do
like, 2 years passes and suddenly they're like "oh yeah, her! cool!"
like don't remember any of the strife
oorrrrrrr they didnt think it was crazy dramatic in the first place
normal
me: we were never friends! He is a crazy biatch
KWalsh: i know but i think he thinks you were friends
in his retroactive narrative
me: but that's so strange
we met at a bar, had a torrid affair, then he went back to Australia
he sent me his penis over the internet and tried to have phone sex with a 16-hour time difference while he was in a relationship
when became single again, he came back to nyc 8 months
we had another torrid three-day affair
and then when i said i didn't want to be his friend in australia, he said i was "fucking crazy"
KWalsh: i know these are all FACTS
but i think he is just conveniently remembering that you're his mate in the US
me: that doesn't compute in my brainhole

And it still doesn’t, guys. I mean, all for living and letting live, but there's a huge difference between that and "sure, show up in my minifeed and keep tabs on my performance schedule as though we have a mutual respect that makes that unobtrusive."
See how many more words that is--clearly, it's very different.

In other news:
I was asked to do a voiceover on the plantation last week for a craft event. Because our setup is so broke and busted, me and the video guy had to record it locked in the bathroom. Of course, you know my work ethic--I'm in it for the bennies and the blog fodder. With that in mind, I have provided a few choice outtakes from the recording session:

Just Checkin' In

Hey gang!

Today’s been super busy. I had a show last night in the East Village and didn’t get home until after midnight. I didn’t eat dinner until 30 minutes after that, and, well, let’s just say that this morning I got to the plantation long after I was supposed to.

The show last night went well, although I was a bit rusty—hadn’t been on stage in a couple of weeks. I did, however, have a great time at the voiceover. My one line was:
I couldn’t find a hospital—forget about how I was going to get there.

I said this 50 times. I am not exaggerating.
Everyone was nice, but very brusque—they were just trying to get it done and move it on. The producer who booked me looked like the seamstress in The Incredibles, but was really nice.


I got there 10 minutes early, thinking that would give me time to get settled in, check my face, etc, but they were waiting for me when I got out of the bathroom! I got the “script” and went right into the booth. A lovely woman named Paula sat in the booth with me, giving me “a person to play to.” She looked just like Gena Rowlands, and I felt like I could trust her.

As I said the line, emphasizing different words each time, Gena Rowlands mouthed direction, such as “Slllooooooooowwwww,” when I needed to not talk so fast; “Toss it!” when she wanted me to ‘let go’ of a word; and leaning in when I reached a word that need emphasis. It ended up only taking 15 minutes, and when I told her this was my first job, she said, “Oh, you’re great!!!”

I wanted to tell her that I loved her in The Notebook, but I didn’t think it was the right time.

Today I got a call from an artist who is kind of obsessed with me. I met him over a year ago, and ever since, he likes to randomly call up and try to get published in the magazine. But instead of just selling himself, he insists on trying to inflate my ego. The thing is, he does so by saying things that are vaguely insulting and overtly lascivious. A couple weeks ago, during our painting event, he stopped by the opening reception. I tried to avoid him, but he made a beeline for a blacktress.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, pulling me away from the safety of my fellow staff members before I could even respond.
“Did I do something to offend you?” he asks. “Because you seem angry with me.”
“What?” I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Um, are we sharing a bunk at summer camp? Why is he trippin’ like we have some bond?
“You always call me ‘sir’ and seem to be so formal,” he explained.
“No, [Carl,]” I said. “I enjoy calling people sir, and I tease you because your ego can handle it.” [The man insists being called by his full name in all correspondence—middle initial and all.]
“Oh, I see. Well, you’re good. You’re a funny one.”
He then proceeds to introduce me to every artist that passes by, whispering to them after we shake hands. Finally, I call him out. One artist explains, “Oh, he just said how beautiful you were.”
Um, HR violation!
When the other guy leaves, Carl proceeds to tell me about a “Stunning, brilliant black woman,” I should get to know. “She’s just like you,” he says, leaning in. “I love a smart and beautiful woman.”
[Note: Carl wears large round glasses and looks like a science teacher from the 1980s. He is a close talker and his breath often smells of red wine and patchouli.]

Oh, and did I mention that he also told me he has “an honorary brother card”? Of course, I demanded he take out his wallet and show it to me. All he could scrounge up was his discount card to an art-supply store.

So, when he calls me up today, he begins with a discussion of how talented I am. “I recently saw Robin Williams on Broadway,” he says. “And he’s got 5 speeds. You, you’ve got 10. Whoopi’s got 20, but you’ll get there.”

This man has never seen me perform. I am not at all interesting at work functions. I certainly don’t think comparing me to either Robin Williams or Whoopi Goldberg is appropriate or even flattering, because it’s so far off and based on so little information.
He ended the conversation the way he always does--by telling me how “impressed” he and his wife are with me. I think this has something to do with being “well spoken.”

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?