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?

Move Over Patsy Cline - I'm the one who's CRAZY

I'm sitting at my desk right now, muttering to myself like a schizophrenic. I believe my exact words were, "Okay, okay, come on, come on." I have this article to write - in fact, I've had it to write for over a month now - and I've got all of 3 measley paragraphs.

It's a balmy 45 degrees (Farenheit), so I'm wearing a thin cable knit sweater, and figured I'd cas it up with jeans - after all, I do work at a magazine. I'm hip, I'm with it.

Turns out the big boss from Colorado (aka, the overseer), who laid off about 50 people yesterday, is coming in today with his right-hand woman. This is probably the wrong time to be dressed down. And I'm over here with an article unwritten. I'm gonna totally get fired for wearing jeans, aren't I?

I'm seriously cracked out. Take, for instance, an excerpt from this morning's first gchat with Jaime (yeah, okay, it's only 9:30 and I'm already procrastinating. what of it?):

me: what is this show?!
my crush greg or my (not) crush tim?
Jaime: no, Brandon Gates
duh
me: SO MANY CRUSHES
WHO IS THAT PERSON?
BRANDON GATES
ALL CAPS
me: ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME
INTENSITY


What the hell is wrong with me? Who are these crushes? Why am I dressed like I'm hitting the streets when the overseer is due in any second? Why on earth would I blog on the plantation at such a delicate time? I'm a hot ass mess today.

Improvised Blogging

So, I'm feeling at a loss guys, unsure of what to write about. In a new and innovative twist, I'm going to go to YOU, the readers. Here's what I'm thinking:

Let's go back to the improvisational comedy roots. In the comments section, write a suggestion. Any word, doesn't matter what it is, or even a sentence/phrase/or random tidbit from the papers. I'll look over the suggestions and see what they inspire me to write. I PROMISE you I will use a suggestion, and I PROMISE you'll have a new blog post by the day's end--that is, IF you give me suggestions!!!

In a way, it's like Choose Your Own Blacktress Adventure!! What fun!

I'm not kidding. Leave a suggestion.

Breaking the (Blogger's) Block

Hey Guys,

Sorry for falling off the face of the blogosphere (is that what the cool web-savvy kids are calling it nowadays?). I’ve been at a loss for the funny—or, at least, anything funny enough to post. Although the return of Dexter to my on-demand menu has boosted my spirits slightly, I can’t shake off the cloud hanging overhead. Sojourner’s feeling a little off her game. I need another white valedictorian of a historically black college to get the world riled up or something.
As a woman of color and writer, I’ve learned that the only way to get over a writer’s block is to…write. So, in the spirit of breaking the cycle (of violence, oppression, and non-bloggery), let’s get warmed up. Here are some things I thought about blogging about, but couldn’t quite get off the ground:

Another female middle-school teacher was arrested for having an affair with a student.
Kelsey Peterson, a math teacher at Lexington Middle School, in Lexington, Nebraska, plead guilty to traveling across state lines with the intent of elicit sex with a minor on July 1. She started having sex with the student when he was 12 years old, and when rumors of their affair became public, she put him in a car and headed to Mexico.

I kid you not.

While there are many ways to look at this, I think you know what Sojourner would say:
If this doesn’t show you how hard it is to find a decent man, I don’t know what does. Year after year, gainfully employed, intelligent (and cray-cray) young women, faced with the bleak truth of single life in a small town, have no choice but to get them while they’re young and impressionable and try to make love work. So blinded by the need for affection, they ignore all laws and common sense, risking jail time and registry as a sex offender just so they can find a moment of true love—it really is enough to make the baby Jesus cry.

I’m suffering from Black Mama Drama to the Maxxxxx.
For those of you who don’t have black mothers, let me explain. While yes, all parents/guardians like to stress out their children and have trouble seeing them as adults when the time comes, the single black mother is a different, fiercer breed of parent. With the strength of Audre Lorde and other blacktivists she has raised her children, living a life of sacrifice from the moment she chose to carry them to term. Currently living in the house that mamadukes built, I have discovered I am damned if I do AND if I don’t. When I “stay out till 3am, keeping whore hours” (yes, this was said) I do not want to spend time with the family; when I stay in on a Sunday afternoon, I am treated to a torrent of anger over my “pigsty of a room”—I have to ask myself if slavery days were ever really over.

The Hunt for Bindi Continues…
With the aforementioned black mama drama, the decision to move down under is becoming clearer and clearer. My E.T.A. is October 21, 2008—just when springtime is coming. (I’m going to laugh in the face of god and nature by experiencing two summer seasons in one year) I’ve overcome the biggest hurdle yet: finding a place to get my hair did. Serengeti Hair and Beauty, in the heart of Sydney, will handle my nappy scandals for the low-low price of $90-$150!!! AAAAAHHHHH!
Um, the blacktress is going to have to start a haircare fundraiser, stat.

I think I’ll begin my search for the Emmy-nominated child-activist with the Taronga Zoo, in Sydney. Perhaps Bindi will be cuddling a koala, and will have her guard down so that I can swoop in and befriend her.


Pizza, Pizza, Pizza!
The rejection by the Biblical Teacher (that’s what I’m calling him now) is still hurting Sojourner, which shouldn’t be the case. While the first weekend of crying and watching Dexter was to be expected, I try my best to live by two mottos: Ass, gas, or grass—nobody rides for free; and Erase, replace, embrace new face. But for some reason, I just really feel like I f-d up a good thing, and I’m going to die alone, found only by authorities after the melted pint of ice cream I was consuming combines with the scent of my rotting carcass to create a smell so foul the neighbors had no choice but to call and complain.

What—too morbid?

I found myself thinking of another time I was jilted by a fella I really thought I had “locked down.” At the time I was ranting on the phone to a friend as I perused the Pizza Hut menu. I figured I had nothing to lose—certainly not pounds—since I’d already relapsed into old habits.
After she and I hung up, I turned my phone back on to order my trans-fat pizza pie for one, and I was suddenly struck by the almost maudlin words on the back of Pizza Hut’s flyer.

“At Pizza Hut we strive for excellence. If we do not give you your receipt or fall short of your expectations in any way, we would like to hear from you.”

Do you know my first thought?
“I wish men were like Pizza Hut.”
Unlike most self-absorbed guys, who say they are “working through some stuff” and/or “going through a lot right now” (striving for excellence in their own way), Pizza Hut is willing to be called out on it! If, Pizza Hut lets me down during their process of achieving excellence, they not only expect, but ask for phone call. As far as I’m concerned, that makes Pizza Hut more attractive than any man I’ve ever known.

Okay. Now I know that blurb was written by a team of clever advertising executives, most of whom minored in psychology, solely to inspire me to say, “fuck you, Dominos! You don’t care about me!” And yet, I felt like Pizza Hut was proving to be more comforting in two sentences than any heterosexual relationship I had ever been in. And that, I thought immediately afterwards, is a damn shame.


So, in summation:
When your black mama drama gets to be too much to bear, and the repeated viewings of your favorite tv show don’t get you going, apply for a work visa in a foreign country and be glad that you can buy pizza anywhere.