Las Vegas Sumo

If I were a rich white middle-class man...

2011-12-13T03:14:00.003-05:00

If I were a rich white middle-class man, I might write Forbes columnist Gene Marks’ misguided opinion piece cum advice column entitled “If I was a poor black kid.” For the record I still think he should have used “were”. Shamefully the piece was prompted by President Obama’s “excellent speech” highlighting “the defining issue of our time”, also known as the defining sound bite of his 2012 campaign—the travails of the middle class. That now is a “make-or-break moment for the middle class” got Marks thinking about the growing earnings spread between the good hardworking 99% and that of their dark 1% overlords and how things are getting more difficult for the former. In his post he moves rapidly from the specter of the most powerful brother in America to the mock tragedy that his white children, who are very real to him, have more opportunity than a mythical young boy who has the misfortune of being born both black and poor. He muses that this inequality persists despite the fact that they possess equal intelligence, as if that is a defining factor. If you think that you know where this is going, as I did, please heed Sam Jackson’s quote from Jurassic Park to “hold on to your butts”. Instead of traveling down the usual liberal kumbayah path of we need to give these people money, and by that I mean more social programs, the piece takes a sharp right and heads straight down bootstrap lane with a pit stop in blame the victim hollow.

The logic of his argument is skewed such that I had to take notes to formulate its account. Marks asserts the following: Despite the fact that the economic situation in our country is making it increasingly difficult to aspire to and sustain a middle class lifestyle and that inequality is rampant, there is still plenty of opportunity for those with the fewest resources and support through the use of technology (which he sells) to succeed if they “want to be helped” and are “smart enough to go for it”.

Take a breath and read it again or refuse to take my word for it and plunge into the full article. First, don a helmet.

Marks details what he would do if he were a poor black boy in the worst part of the inner city attending the worst schools with overburdened teachers and a choice of either a stressed out single parent or two stressed out parents with a Jamaican amount of jobs. Let’s go on and give his stereotype a real ghetto nickname—Li’l T-Dawg. If only T would avail himself of his options, fire up his netbook on the wifi , start downloading free educational software, watch Ted lectures to smarten up, get into that magnet school or an elite private school looking to diversify their holdings. Marks condescendingly chimes in about private schools, “But there’s a secret about them. Most have scholarship programs.” Black America take note—they got scholarships don’t ya know. In addition , T should learn to write code, get himself to college, and live happily ever after. Throughout, Marks sprinkles in for contrast or to gloat, it is not clear, that his life is much easier what with him being white and all. Luckily he didn’t have to do all this and he still got a job as a blogger! Oh, to be white.

Aside from the Obama quotes and the author’s statement that there is inequality (though this is admission is the tiniest of fig leaves) I find little in this piece that is not deeply troubling. Even more troubling is the idea that one man’s ignorance may represent the ignorance of a large sector of our population ensuring that the solutions needed to level the playing field for all children in the US may never be addressed.

The author’s insistence that T, to extend the metaphor, pull himself by his bootstraps ignores the fact that he may be barefoot. And despite the fact that T is of average intelligent he is charged with supplementing his education, something I doubt the Marks children would be able to do successfully. I have a MS in teaching and taught for a decade and it was hard work everyday, but sure L’il T you go right ahead draw up a lesson plan ala Test-Teach-Test. I cram to understand (thank you, MCLyte) why the author has placed the responsibility of educating a student primarily on the student. The state demands massive amounts of capital and resources to provide middling to poor educational opportunities to low income students and is failing them miserably. Nonetheless a child with no capital and few resources is supposed to pick up the slack and go on ahead and gather the resources and knowledge to do so armed only with a net book and wifi? For my next trick I shall put this seed in a box in the closet without light, soil or water and accuse it of stunting it’s growth.

We should be providing children with the tools they need and not just hoping they can scrounge them up. The present result of not providing these tools is the lopsided inefficient society in which we live. The future could be our own special brand of caste system replete with its social ills. While I agree that technology can have a place in leveling the playing filed but I also firmly believe that it is an addition to and not a foundation for doing so. Our greatest resource for education and positive social change will always be people.

Marks certainly ignores some of the less savory aspects of what life is like for the truly have-nots in our society. News flash, poverty comes with a lot more than just bad schools, rough neighborhoods, and preoccupied parents. From his comfortable seat he is clearly out of touch with those to whom he is offering advice, which makes his actions giving even more arrogant. I’d like to tell him a thing or two about rearing two white daughters. And by the way if you really want to reach the black community and specifically it’s youth, Forbes is the place. And thanks for getting back to us on how our kids can succeed.

The mélange of Marks broad stereotyping, flawed logic, distancing, and arrogance is but another kind of soft bigotry, one that at once blames and dehumanizes the victim. L’il T is but a fault, a set of problems that must somehow fix itself or quietly go away. Marks’ words show that he comes from and inhabits a place that is in many ways a far worse, poorer, and disadvantaged than that of his fictional poor black boy and we will all suffer for it. To twist his words: Empathy can help these men. But only if the men want to be helped. Yes, there is much ignorance. But the opportunity is still there in this country for those that are compassionate enough to go for it.

I was dreaming when I wrote this, so scuse me if there a typos....

Panama!!!

2011-12-09T23:18:00.000-05:00

Gone Fishin'

2011-09-17T13:01:00.000-04:00

Las Vegas Sumo in on a much needed extended vacation.

See you after Sack of the "New World" Day.

Ep 17: Chachi Gone Wild

2011-09-06T09:46:00.000-04:00

A great debate on the merits of the Maryland and Tuxedo, NY Renn Faires
Discount Celebrities: Rosario "Big Mouth" Dawson vs. Zoe " black Salt" Soldana
TWIB (The Week In Bateman): Jason Bateman is no Scott Baio
HYDKI: Girls Gone Wild founder in hot co-ed water
Advice on Advice: How to "Deal" with Lawyers in your Co-op
Diamonds at Costco
some surprising intra-segment music
an "Easter egg"
y mucho mas

LISTEN NOW ON PODBEAN OR ITUNES

Intro/Out music: Four Alarm from the Viva!! EP by Cinema Cinema

Get in Touch with HYKI

Send listener mail to heyyouknowit@gmail.com, follow us on twitter/heyyouknowit and find us on facebook.

We will read any 5 star reviews regardless of content. So, please review us on iTunes.

A Decade Ago (not about 9/11)

2011-09-06T09:36:00.002-04:00

Ten years ago this month I came to New York with the idea ofcarrying out a successful job search, successful enough to enable me to pay offmy loans and get back out the country pronto. I had spent the last year or soliving in Budapest and had been coerced into returning back home by my thenfiancé, now ex-husband. Financially it did make more sense for us to both be inthe US and save money to buy things in his home country of Hungary, butspiritually for me it was murderous. I cried when the plane touched down atJFK, he was thrilled. It was his first time in a brand new country. I sawcoming back as failure. I had spent my entire life plotting to leave.

First I plotted to leave Coleman’s Corner, the “town” whereI grew up. Once that worked, I schemed to leave Easton, the town to which wehad moved. Finally when I got to boarding school I imagined that college wouldbe my next flight. I looked at schools only on the west coast and in Canada. Iended up attending a school outside of New York City on and off for seven yearsoccasionally leaving for financial and mental health reasons— the mental healthissues being wanderlust. There was no rush to graduate. My career prospectsincluded going back to school for an MA in something or marrying someone with aforeign passport.

I dated British guys furiously hoping one would be foolishenough to, as it has vulgarly come to be known, put a ring on it. I was muchless interested in love, money, the future, or a happy marriage and majorlyfocused on dual citizenship. Sadly, I didn’t know what I was doing. I had verylittle respect for men and even less for male egos. With a little more savvyand a lot more silence I could have been living across the pond well before themillennium. As it transpired, I was lucky to have gotten away at all. In thespring of 1999 met a Chinese food delivery guy in a takeout joint in London. Theplace was across the street from the college where I was doing a semesterabroad. The food was Chinese, the guy Hungarian.

We got engaged on our firstdate, crashed his car, bought a new car, and drove to Budapest as soon as thesemester ended. We lived in Pest for a little over a year during which time Ibecame a very successful little businessperson. I was making more money than adoctor, it was an all cash business, and I had no expenses. It was my firstexperience as a freelancer and I loved it. It was also my first experience inbeing taken seriously and as an added bonus the average Hungarian didn’t seemto hate African-Americans as much as white folks in the US. I had forgottenwhat a heavy burden racism really was, how it eats away at what they call asoul and makes every action and thought a grind. I wasn’t eager to remember iteither. And Budapest was beautiful. I had escaped and was living the life—so ofcourse, it couldn’t last.

The one thing that I thought would be a certain ticket outwas the very thing that forced my return, education. Well, student loans. Therewas no way that I could pay off my student loans while abroad not by plying theone trade that a degree in Medieval Studies/Theatre degree from a tiny liberalarts college gets you. As an ESL teacher I would be well compensated in thelocal currency of whatever place I choose, but I could never leave. And itwould have been near impossible to save money unless I chose to move to an areaof the world were ESL money was real and I was not going to teach in an ESLmill in Asia where I would have to dress and act like a professional—and livein Asia. I might as well teach in the US.

So, I can’t blame my returncompletely on the fiancé. My conscience got to me. I had taken out that mammothloan even though I didn’t quite understand it at the time and I felt I had topay it off just in case a credit score really did matter. So in September 2001I came back and descended upon New York for a disastrous job search that taughtme that my skills were worthless, well just not worth enough to afford me toeat and live indoors in New York. After being told that I should considergallery work, and not for the first time, on September 9^th I packed,thanked my friend for letting me crash in her Greenpoint apartment and took thebus back to DC. Good thing too, because two days later I would have beenexperiencing the shock of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center thatbonded together the millions of New Yorkers in it’s aftermath. Instead Iwatched the second tower attacked on cable live from the safety of our shittybasement apartment in DC and felt no connection to anyone. Afterwards, once ithad been determined that only the Pentagon was a target in DC we went outdrinking with the rest of the city and theorized about what the fuck had justhappened. So much for living in New York.

For years I wished I had stayed in Budapest. I could have. My future/futureex mother-in-law told me I could always come back-even on my own. There wouldalways be a place to stay. After we got married, the church wedding, I took herup on her offer. It didn’t work out as I hoped. I should have just drifted onthrough Eastern Europe and down into the Balkans with my “exotic” looks, USpassport, and ESL credentials. I could have disappeared that night into themessiness of Belgrade. Foolishly, and because I felt some marital obligation Ireturned to DC briefly before decamping for the Bronx, alone. Generally, youonly get one chance. If you get two and you don’t take either, don’t expectanything else.

HYKI Ep 15: Get Away from Me 470

2011-08-22T11:41:00.000-04:00

And, we're back. Just in time for lunch.

Snack on this:

TWIB: (the week in bateman) Find out what "decent" actor Jason Bateman is up to this week.
Advice on Advice: We critique some horrid advice on how to deal with cheap ass in-laws.
Discount Celebrity: Tom Green vs. Jamie Kennedy (shouldn't they be free?).
HYDKI (hey you didn't know it): A man tries to buy illegal drugs online and gets ripped off. Who knew?
Listener feedback: Two iTunes reviews and one gripe
Hunger strikes. What's the deal?
Native American paybacks. Get sovereign with it.
and much, much more...

Listen to HYKI Ep 15: Get Away from Me 470 on Podbean and iTunes

Please enjoy.

Intro/Out music: Four Alarm from the Viva!! EP by Cinema Cinema

Vindication

2011-08-22T01:10:00.002-04:00

Hey look, a least one person thinks I am a "real" writer and interviewed me on my writing process. Check out the full story on t. tara turk's blog b-girl stance.

HYKI Ep 14: Dirty Nude Flashmobs

2011-08-19T21:17:00.001-04:00

Now Weekly and with 15 Pieces of Flair

We are sticking to our schedule of a new show each Monday. Get ready for episode 14 wherein Jacquetta discovers how to use garageband and Katie figures how to make a recording studio with her bare hands. Also, learn about the following in our regular segments:

This Week in Bateman: a new quote about gay people because he just won't quit
Advice on Advice: How to Make Friends, but not really
HYDKI (hey, you didn't know it): Exiting Workers are More Disgruntled
Discount Celebrity: Jason Statham vs. Daniel Craig. We think Craig is seriously biting on his style with Cowboys & Aliens

But wait there's more!

Is the military teaching cockroaches to dance?
Flash mobs- how they started and how they went ballistic in Philly
50 people get nude for 1 minute on Wall Street and they call it art
Filthy money that smells like, well, you know...
listener mail
transitional music

y mucho mas...

Please enjoy on iTunes or Podbean.com

Intro/Out music: Four Alarm from the Viva!! EP by Cinema Cinema

New Podcast Every Smurfing Monday!

2011-08-07T17:51:00.001-04:00

Coming to you weekly, as promised!

LISTEN ON PODBEAN OR ITUNES

Tune in to HEY YOU KNOW IT Ep. 13: Soon to Be Named and hear why:

Jason Bateman declares that by definition "gay is smart"
good editing skills are the best cure for narcissism
Kevin (de)Kline is almost twice the actorman as Hank "Gargamel" Azaria
you just can't run like a banshee
modern toilets are as good as they ought to get
yet another animal escaped a NYC zoo
the new debt deal does NOT matter
and much, much more

Plus a surprising sound effect.

MINTY TALK HOLE HYKI is Back

2011-07-31T21:18:00.001-04:00

Oy, we made it. HYKI is back and we promise never to leave you at the off ramp like that again. HKYI has gone DIY. Sisters are doing it digitally for themselves and we'll be bringing you a new episodes each and every week. Bear and learn with us as we navigate the tricky e-waters of home podcasting. But what we may lack in tech savvy we will make up for with sheer rapier wit-and we learn fast.

So without further ado we bring you our twelfth episode featuring 2 new segments:

The Week in Bateman: Updates on the actor we love to support, but whom we don't actually love or find sexually attractive.

Hey, you DIDN"T know it: Reportage on oblivious people living among us.

And off course, we have these old chestnuts: Advice on Advice & Discount Celebrity Corner

Please hit us with listener mail at heyyouknowit@gmail.com, follow us ontwitter/heyyouknowit and find us on facebook soon before we decamp for google+.

Also we have yet to get another review on iTunes... Hook a podcast up! Following the lead of The Black Guy Who Tips, we will read any 5 star reviews regardless of content. So, please review us on iTunes.

Episode 12: MINTY TALK HOLE on iTunes and Podbean.

"That's funny" gets a shout out

2011-06-13T22:19:00.000-04:00

After having braved Trader Joe's on Sunset and Vine, I was refueling at nearby Fabiolus Cafe when I spotted my name and the name of my show in the LA Weekly. That's one for the scrapbook. Maybe this will induce people to check out the show and buy tickets.

Read the blurb www.laweekly.com/events/hollywood-fringe-festival-1289890/

"That's funny." Invited to United Solo Theatre Festival

2011-06-13T12:18:00.000-04:00

I am happy to announce, apparently in a very formal way, that my solo show "That's funny. You didn't sound black on the phone." has been invited to the United Solo Theatre Festival. I accept!
United Solo is annual festival of solo artists from all over the globe performing in NYC and is held in Theatre Row from Oct. 20- Nov 20th. It is the largest solo festival on the planet.

But now back to getting ready for the Hollywood Fringe Festival. That's funny opens this Friday at Theatre Asylum. Tickets are on sale online at hollywoodfringe.org and I am offering half-price tickets for facebook fans and twitter followers. I just got in to LA yesterday and already I am feeling at home, because I love LA. Sadly, I left my fedora at home, but I was assured that I could probably manage to find a suitable one basically anywhere.

Outing a Cheater, James Spader, and the Ark Park

2011-06-07T13:42:00.005-04:00

Episode 11 HYKI

We take things back to 1967 and kick it old school. In the meantime we discuss the wide wide world of hate, peace in the Middle East (ha) the gay 90s, trucker etiquette, rentafriend.com, the executive elevator, Kentucky's Ark Park, listener mail, the discount Thor movie, Richard Greico vs. you know who, James Spader vs. Peter Sarsgaard, the one reason a man should do Yoga, how to find your purpose in 20 minutes, advice on advice and a whole lot more. Please enjoy.

If you like what you hear, please email us at heyyouknowit@gmail.com Find us on twitter @heyyouknowit or facebook

Please leave us a review on Itunes

Your browser does not support the audio element.

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Guest Blog on Beyond Black & White

2011-05-22T20:17:00.001-04:00

My online friend Christelyn Karazin who runs
Beyond Black & White and blogs mercilessly on the even less merciful Madame Noire asked me to contribute to BB&W for her Friday Funny feature. Here's where I went...

This has been a crazy week on Digital Planet Negresse replete with ideological kung-fu fighting: pseudo-science proved evolution hit black women with the ugly stick, Cornel West went upside Obama’s head with the “house negro” stick, and the GOP attacked Common’s White House visit with the usual two burning sticks shaped like a cross. Add in the sad, but not shocking, rash of Remy hair heists leading thrifty sisters to wonder if that flat silky weave they bought out of a trunk on East 137^thfrom J-Rock is fueling black on black crime. Everywhere you click it’s foolishness and people carrying on like they just don’t know any better. The sheer volume of madness tempts one to log off from the messenger. As if. So, instead, munch on these fantasy headlines the likes of which one can only dream of discovering on a digital feed. Cue dream sequence harps.

SATC: Segregation and the City

2011-05-10T15:39:00.002-04:00

I have a love hate relationship with the city but mostly because on any given day I travel from 238th street to W 4th or below and sometimes eastward to Brooklyn (which I avoid when possible) and I see too much disparity. I am always struck by segregation in the city. Today I had lunch at a health food café in the West Village and at a certain point during the meal I noticed that the vegan silence had been broken by the sounds of a mass of children playing. This was a sound I had not heard in years, not since I was a public school teacher in the infamous South Bronx. At the schools in which I worked recess was little more than a fantasy. The schools practiced what I would call intensive or battery schooling: kiddy mills. Kids arrived at school very early for breakfast and were sequestered inside, rain or shine, and pumped with “math” and “literacy” until their afterschool programs finished.

Ironically, the afterschool programs were subcontracted out to private providers who then hired us at a competitive rate (enough for my Spring Break trip to Cairo) to teach what we could have taught during the school day if we had been allowed to and given the materials and training. For the afterschool gig each teacher was given a small group of students grouped by ability, not age, as well all the materials and professional development we needed to move these kids from one reading comprehension level to the next. The program required little to no prep work and only the top teachers where hired. I imagine these perks are afforded to the school whose playground I passed and are enjoyed during the school day. Our students had no gym and rarely had recess so I never got to hear the sounds of them playing and I never got to play with them. When I instituted play in the classroom in the form of music and theatre, which was not received well by the administration, this was as close as I got.

Wow. What a large private school. And in the middle of the city.

As I passed by the playground of the school I was amazed to see that 95% of the kids were white. Then I noticed that some of the playground staff were black, that is hardly how private schools “do”. I mean a black janitor is one thing; there must be a union involved here. As I rounded the corner I saw the entrance of the school. It was a PS. Amazing. In the 3 schools I taught in, in the Bronx I could count the number of white kids on one hand. Obviously we don’t need to get into the economic and socio-political reasons for these-we are all well aware of them and dismiss them daily- but it is shocking to see there in not so Black and very White.

In my small town there is little segregation in the school system. Each school’s catchment area cut across zip codes and neighborhoods creating an ethnically and randomly mixed student body. One of my dreams of living in a city was to access its amazing diversity, but I am not seeing that mix – not in Manhattan and not in my borough, the Bronx. A walk through lower Manhattan, especially down the West Side, often depresses me with it’s uniformity. I feel like I am back in Europe. So, this is where the white folk are hiding out with all their money. At the same time the neighborhood looks the way I want a neighborhood to look- neat, walkable, a variety of shops (I’m just talking looks, the prices and wares are often ridiculous) bars, and restaurants and a minimum of foolishness on the street, foliage-the works. But the homogeneity of the residents make it as sterile as a set on a back lot.

Is it possible to have diversity here? Does it matter? Does anyone want it? Is there a city that can deliver both? Or is what I saw on the playground just the future?

Rupaul's Shangela, Lizard People & the 2011 HKYI Balls Out Bachelorette Party

2011-05-10T00:43:00.002-04:00

HEY YOU KNOW IT EP. 9

The results are in on the "Actor with the Best Yell Poll, inspirational drag queens like Shangela Laquifah Wadley, how to look thinner using pinstripes, architectural features and a loud voice, curing hoarding with kerosene and a match, Katie's broke-ass childhood summer games, Jacquetta - theatre school drop out, street whisperers, bachelorette party time machine, dropping trou, a thriller themed male review, The Rock vs Vin Diesel, and a lot more.

Listen now or check us out on Itunes or Podbean

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Download this episode (right click and save)

Matt Modine, Ms. Tyler Perry & the Oldest Princess

2011-05-03T00:26:00.003-04:00

HYKI Ep. 8

In our latest podcast, Ep. 8, we tackle the tough issues:

A fake "Vogue" almost fools the HYKI crew
Cats for Passover
Paul Giamatti as Ben Bernanke vs. fellow on-screen schmo Steve Buscemi
The poverty of language
Collateral death obligation
Is Tyler Perry all about "coonery"
And who cares about the royal wedding

Please enjoy.

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Also available on iTunes.

African American Pundit

2011-04-29T00:22:00.000-04:00

Opinions really are like @ssholes...

"That's funny." $10 Preview in Times Square

2011-04-24T16:30:00.001-04:00

2 Nights Only!

New Targets, New Material, New Director

Preview “That’s funny.” before it’s 2011 Hollywood Fringe Festival run.

May 27 & 28, 10pm $10

The Producers’ Club: Royal Theatre 358 West 44th Street @ 9^th Ave.

Tickets will be sold at the door from 9pm on the day of the show. Cash only. There is a bar on site; I suggest you use it. I will be there after the show. I prefer a dirty martini with three olives. Bottom shelf's fine. You know how I do.

My Spiel:

2010 Hollywood Fringe Festival “Best Comedy” Nominee

A politically incorrect one-woman comedic cage match pitting race against class against religion. Tales of non-conformist black girl in extreme rural Maryland who almost “gives up on black people”, takes The Official Preppy Handbook as her co-pilot, and flees to a Delaware boarding school with dreams of being nouveau riche and living Jesus-free in Connecticut. Dark, dark, comedy from a dark, dark comedian. Written and performed by Jacquetta Szathmari. Directed by Leslie Collins.

An Official Spiel by a real life critic (and that was before rewrites and a director!)

“African-American actress Jacquetta Szathmari explains that for many years she had “given up on being black,” not out of any internalized racism but because she had always disapproved of the narrow definition of behavior imposed on her by the outside community. In her cracklingly smart, funny, philosophical and often politically incorrect monologue, Szathmari describes growing up in an isolated, hardscrabble rural Maryland community, where she always dreamed of finding class and culture—it’s not that she didn’t want to be black, she wanted to be upper class and live the life exemplified by a copy of The Official Preppy Handbook she purchased at a library bookstore. Thoughtful, introspective and sweetly intimate, Szathmari’s solo show offers a great deal to ponder, as it presents a genuine, unapologetic nonconformist on her own journey of self-discovery. "

Reviewed by Paul Birchall, L.A. Weekly

There is a NEW Sheriff in Town

2011-04-16T19:06:00.002-04:00

"That's funny. You didn't sound black on the phone." has scored a new director, Leslie Collins! This is a relief to the old director, me, and a boon for all. Yesterday was our first rehearsal at Simple Studios (with their kick-ass walk-in rates) and I concur that the show has already improved at least 37%. But enough about me... Here's Leslie!

Leslie Collins is a director, actor and writer originally from Dallas, Texas. She has spent most of her professional career working within musical theater. She is closely associated with the Peoples Improv Theater in NYC and performs with the house team Borealis. Leslie wrote and performed her own multi-character solo musical Poteet Girls, which continued on to an extended run at the PIT and other performances at various festivals and theaters across America. She has directed many other solo shows that have been seen in the NY International Fringe Festival, Stage Left Studios and 13th Street Repertory, to name a few. Leslie was also a featured comedian for VH1's "Best Night Ever." If you want to know even more, go to www.lesliecollins.tumblr.com or www.poteetgirls.com to learn about her upcoming performances.

Heading to Hollywood

2011-04-10T20:21:00.001-04:00

My one woman show "That's funny. You didn't sound black on the phone." returns to the Hollywood Fringe Festival (June 16-26) with new material, new targets, new venues--and maybe even a musical number. Maybe not. That's all very exciting, but not as exciting as my new postcard designed by the lovely, fabulous, and amazing stephanopolis.com. Feast your eyes on this:

That's what I'm talking about!

Please visit "That's funny." on the Fringe site and "like" it. Help a sister out.
While you're at-- it find "That's funny." on facebook.

HYKI Ep. 7 Relationships, Injustice & Jason Bateman

2011-03-27T19:16:00.000-04:00

From our secret Bushwick location with whole wheat snacks, cans of Red Bull and visions of grandeur we bring you the much awaited Episode 7. We have a new format, but our most popular segments, Discount Celebrity Corner and Advice on Advice, made the grade. We hope you enjoy our latest e-opus and look forward to your feedback.

Find out about:

The new St Patrick’s Day in Hoboken
If Dr. Phil can tell you if your man will cheat and why
Why Icelanders should have had slaves
Who is the real discount Jason Bateman
How Obama ruined Kwanzaa
Our big ass trailer park nation
How I got sucker punched on the A train

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Fringe, Not the Ring Cycle: Take 2

2011-03-02T00:17:00.000-05:00

The lovely Cindy Marie Jenkins asked me to be a monthly guest blogger on her theatre/community activist get-it-done site. In the coming posts I will be telling all about how I am going to prepare for the 2011 Hollywood Fringe Festival with a second version of the chit'lin-free "That's funny. You didn't sound black on the phone." In this post I talk about last years pitfalls and successes and my plans to avoid the former and ensure the latter (and insure). So far I have a new logo and a kicking revised part 3, if I do say so myself.

Here's a link to the blog post.

Wherein I detail how I got sucker punched on the A train

2011-02-06T16:48:00.001-05:00

On Friday Feb. 4th the eminent Robin Cloud invited me to rant and rave in a comedic fashion at her show, Triple Minority Report. Here's what got caught on tape before my battery ran dead. Warning: Profanity and antiestablishment themes. It's also very raw--bits have to start somewhere...

WSJ Opinion Writer, Out of My Uterus

2011-01-18T10:08:00.000-05:00

I usually avoid reading the opinion section of the WSJ unless it relates to finance, but today's opinion piece by William McGurn raised my hackles. I am strongly in the "abortion-on-demand/ if don't like abortion, don't have one camp" and see any discussion of of women's issues from the right, especially women of color issues as a soft missile targeted at us being able to make decision for ourselves. Here is his opinion, and below is mine:

Dear Mr McGurn,

Wow. Your poorly conceived and watery editorial on abortion demonstrates your complete lack of knowledge of or refusal to contemplate what goes through a woman's mind at the advent of an unwanted pregnancy. The reasons for terminating a pregnancy are more diverse and complicated than simply how "welcomed and encouraged" the pregnant woman feels about having an unwanted child.

I also find it interesting, though surprising that you would publicly acknowledge it, that you think it perfectly fine for any business (non-profit, for-profit, not-for-profit, religious, charitable, political or otherwise) to lure a client in with omission in advertisements. If a woman is looking for an abortion, she is not looking for someone to show her pictures of still-borns and aborted fetuses and then follow that up with some moral guilt trap in an attempt to further a social or faith-based agenda--she is looking for an abortion. Luckily in New York this is still legal and easily obtained if you know a decent provider. It is hard to give an example that would apply to a male, since our society seems to be falling over itself to offer you every possible medical treatment for your slightest inconvenience. Imagine going in for some obesity, erectile disfunction, a prostate, and hair replacement advice only to be told that what you are doing is both immoral and, oh and by the way, we don't offer that service.

I also find it comical the amount of attention given to the number of Hispanic and black woman who make the difficult decision not to have an unwanted child, especially in a society that generally has no interest in them or their children. No, I suspect that much has been made of this to further demonize both black and hispanic women for exercising our rights to reproductive control and to put our sexuality and socio-economic conditions under a microscope. More cynically, perhaps it is a ploy to draw attention away from other more pressing social issues. A 41% abortion rate means that many pregnant women are choosing to terminate unwanted pregnancies which in my mind is an improvement over 41% of all children being unwanted and reared in a situation, determined by the mother (whose decision we must trust), to be worse than not being born at all.

Also, who goes to Planned Parenthood for an adoption? Have you ever accompanied anyone there and been in the waiting room? Sure, you can do an adoption there, but really that is not the objective the average visit. Planned Parenthood doesn't do enough abortions and McDonald's doesn't serve enough healthy meals...

To answer you opening question: Are babies better than abortions? Not if they are not wanted. I sincerely hope that many others agree that "politics is not the place to start" in dealing with abortion and that women can retain and strengthen our grip on our own uteruses.

Sincerely,

Jacquetta Szathmari

Insomnia- hooo ahhh!

2011-01-11T04:07:00.001-05:00

Long story short - the brother wanted the subway seat to himself so he punched me in the side of the head. But that is a story for another time- and not one I will tell for free. Now I can't seem to get a good night's sleep or a good day's sleep for that matter. I didn't even get hit that hard. For a sucker punch it was pretty lame, but I can't seem to get more than a few zzzz at a time. Apparently he must have knocked open the part of my brain that induces mania because the last few days since the non-fatal blow have been productive, I think. It appears as though things are getting crossed my lists. And it occurs to me that it is time to start writing again. Let's hope this lasts long enough to bang out a screenplay or four. I hope I don't try to solve any murders in the deep north and have to use a stunt double when I am running over logs looking for Robin Williams.

Oh Yes, They WILL Downsize Mp3

2010-12-17T14:50:00.002-05:00

We've decided to release this popular duo as a single. It's the sad, but oft told story of the intersection of rampant globalization, the outsourcing phenomenon and corporate greed set to a snappy and familiar tune (baby it's cold outside). Happy Holidays and we hope your job is still there when you get back to work.

It’s true what they say (I hear they just may downsize) Call Center moved away (I hear they just may downsize) I want to avoid… (Been hoping that they were lies) Bein’ unemployed (Accountings dropping just like flies) I’m really starting to worry (The end’ll come in a hurry) I’ll be next to be shown the door (You’re shookin’ up to your core) Clean out my desk in a flurry (And I think you better hurry) I’ll have to get work as a whore (More like you’ll be cleaning a floor)...

Download this episode (right click and save)

HYKI Ep. 6 WORK: How to Get Ahead

2010-12-12T14:22:00.003-05:00

This is our last episode of the decade, so enjoy it. We know times are tough. The economy is suicidal, unemployment is high, unemployment insurance is low and polticians are sitting on their thumbs like we elected them to be bemused and collect fat pensions. We are here to help with stellar advice on how to get a job using robo-interviewers and trickery as well as tips on how to get ahead at work through some good old fashioned ass-kissing, emulation, and low level espionage. In addition we critique some horrible job advice and as always in the celebrity corner we debut some excellent celeb discounts and comparisons. Bonus Track: The hit-esque single "Oh Yes They Will Downsize" in two-part harmony. Happy New Year!

Jacquetta Szathmari at In The Flesh Reading Series, Sex & Comedy Night, ...

2010-11-28T18:41:00.001-05:00

I was invited to participate in the penultimate In the Flesh's comedy sex night. Here is what I have to say about how I would change sex for the better, How I finally broke the seal, and how I hate being holla'd at on the streets of NYC. Enjoy.

This video was provided by In The Flesh " a monthly reading series held the third Thursday of every month at the appropriately named Happy Ending Lounge, and features the city's best erotic writers sharing stories to get you hot and bothered, hosted and curated by erotic writer/editor Rachel Kramer Bussel (Best Sex Writing series, Do Not Disturb, Spanked, Dirty Girls, etc.). From erotic poetry to down and dirty smut, these authors get naked on the page and will make you lust after them and their words. Themed nights have included True Sex Confessions, Revenge of the Sex Columnists, GLBT Night, and Comedy Sex"

HYKI Ep. 5 Fears and Phobias

2010-11-21T13:53:00.004-05:00

In this episode Katie and Jacquetta delve into the world of fears and phobias: various common fears, the origins of fear (in utero and out), advice on advice on how to overcome the phobias of failure and public speaking, the slight differences between Marky Mark & Matthew "alright alright JKL" McConaughey and the even slighter differences between Bills Pullman and Paxton, and snakes who sunbathe. In addition, there is a musical number at the end. Well the musicality is debatable, but it's there.

Download this episode (right click and save)

HYKI Holiday Survival Guide

2010-11-04T13:55:00.004-04:00

Now on iTunes AND PODBEAN (and right here below)

HEY YOU KNOW IT - EPISODE 4: HOLIDAY SURVIVAL GUIDE

The holidays are almost upon on and the use of the preposition "upon" is but one clue as to how much we are looking forward to them. We give you tips on how to make it from Diwali to Thanksgiving to Kwanzaa with a heady mix of Vegas, booze infused red bull, pop psychology, and denial. See how Vince Vaughn measures up against his oft co-star (meh) P. Van Horn, get advice on advice, find out how certain monotheists deliver the mail, deconstruct the arrival of Black Peter, and much more. Please enjoy. Happy Festivus.

Please find us on Twitter/heyyouknowit or on facebook or send us some listener mail at heyyouknowit@gmail.com

Stay tuned for Episode #5 Fears and Phobias 11/22

HYKI Ep. 3 - Augmentation: Add Men

2010-10-24T19:16:00.004-04:00

While my tan was still wearing off I made into the studio with co-host Katie Kazimir to tape HYKI 3. It' all about nip and tuck. When to do it, when not to do it and the merits of both. In addition we pit the lovely Pamela Anderson against some woman named Heidi Montag, discuss the merits of mail order brides, and address crucial listener mail. Please enjoy via the player below or on iTunes.

Isla Mujeres 2010

2010-10-12T22:45:00.001-04:00

No Wedding, No Problem

2010-09-22T14:15:00.002-04:00

Everyone is making such a big deal about this whole single-parent/out-of-wedlock “epidemic” in the black community. Apparently, 72% of all African-American children are born out of wedlock. First of all, big deal. And second of all, get with the times. Who uses phrases like “out of wedlock”? This whole get married push is yet another way for bleeding heart white liberals and bourgie black folks to try to shame regular black folk into adopting the uppity middle class standards to which they so desperately cling. Those on the far right are pushing marriage because they think it will save them money on welfare and whatnot. To hide their racism they claim that a two-parent household has a greater capacity for wealth creation and that this creates a more stable and therefore better atmosphere for child rearing. Blah, blah, kids from two-parent households do better in school, have greater self-esteem... They are just cheap and don’t want to help black folks out with any social services. Single-mom households pay taxes too! Somewhat less because they make less, but that is not the point.

We all know that marriage is merely a societal convention used to control people and mute the progress of women, who by the way no longer need a man (or a woman—lesbians, I am looking at you. Don’t buy it.). The rejection of marriage frees men up to lead more productive lives and to avoid being bogged down by something they did years ago when they may not have been paying attention. I don’t see single fathers out there complaining about how hard their lives are and how they need help with their kids. Can we really expect them to give more than the mandated 17%? It’s more than enough; let them do their thing.

The idea of family is completely constructed by "the man" to make us feel inadequate. Furthermore having a “family” is an unobtainable ideal. Modern individuals don’t have the time to look for a partner, wait and see of that relationship will work, make a commitment, and then plan to have a family. I'm tired just thinking about it. If we all did that, none of us would be here, hence they are trying to wipe us out. And is that really preferable to just doing what you want now and then dealing with the consequence later? It’s all about control. They complain that children from single-parent households have it rough. Whatever, I know plenty of children from so-called in tact families and they are no better off.

I came from a single-parent household and my father was completely absent, maybe I have seen him two dozen times, and I am just fine. Sure I resented him for all of my childhood and most of my adulthood—-I am hoping that this will subside during this cycle of therapy—-and this made it near impossible have productive relationships and to love myself, but show me someone who doesn’t have Daddy issues. I have a few friends who were raised by single moms and they never give up on trying to find the approval of their father in men they date. No matter how many times they get burned or how awful the guy is they don’t give up-—they persevere. It’s admirable.

I learned a lot from not having my father around. For example, never trust men. I mean really, you can’t trust them. A friend of mine used to say, they cut out after they pull out. True. The sooner you learn that lesson the better. In addition, I learned to be super independent. When one of the two people who is supposed to have your best interests at heart can’t be bothered, you get the message that the world is a cold, hard place and so you had better steel yourself for disappointment at every turn. Children should know that right out of the womb.

I was spared the trouble of having my parents as role models, which is fine since a hero ain’t nothing but a sandwich. In my case, it’s just cheese sandwich because I don’t eat meat. Anyway, I wasn’t going to look up to Mom in my teenage years, I was too angry at her for choosing my dad. I definitely wasn’t going to ask her for any relationship advice. I wisely chose to be withdrawn and then later got all my relationship advice from the media and my peers. Go with what you think you know.

Even though I come from the ABC school of family planning—Abortion, Birth control, Condoms—I wholeheartedly agree that sometimes you just gotta throw caution to the wind (I’m talking bareback) or go for that anchor baby—-he might stick around. If not, you tried. It’s a free world and you’ll be fine, your kid will get over feeling unloved, unwanted, and like a huge burden heaped onto to your obvious struggle. The kid will be made a stronger, harder-shelled person from the pain. They say that what doesn’t make you stronger can kill you. Maybe the other way around? Well, it only kills you on the inside.

HIATUS

2010-09-19T17:46:00.003-04:00

Watts a Dump!

2010-09-16T11:35:00.008-04:00

It is a rare occasion when I find myself offended. In fact after I left the taping of “The Reggie Watts Show” I searched around for other people in the hopes of confirming that I had neither in fact lost my damn mind nor was being overly sensitive. Let me admit my bias, I hate hipster “culture” as much as Nixon hated peaceniks. I detested the whole scene back in the 90s when I finally graduated from college and the first real wave of gentrification descended upon the unsuspecting peoples of Williamsburg. To me hispterdom has always represented a brief resting ground for the hoards of unattractive milk-fed suburban youth who somehow can’t get real jobs after four years of liberal arts education, but still get monthly scratch from Mummy and Daddykins. They seem to have no political leanings other than apathy and consumerism and this lack of conviction manifests itself in mostly meaningless disposable and poorly executed arts and entertainment. In fact, hipster art/entertainment often seems to be either about navel gazing or straight-up nothing, which were the themes of The Reggie Watts Show. Who thought that nothing could be so offensive? The show began as it ended with Watts doing his incoherent mumbling SAT word shtick with references to nothing salient and ended in the same way accompanied by an improvised electronic soundtrack. His making music was the most interesting segment. This is obviously his strongpoint and I wish this had been what the show was about. Instead they decided to do the usual comedy segments- white people on the street interviews, musical guests, a 5-minute comedy set by Eugene Mirman (seemed like hours), a few skits, and guest appearances. The strongest segment by far was Gabe and Jenny, a local comedy duo—they should have a show. The musical guests were a performance group called Das Racist. I am not sure what statement they were trying to make—although that may have not so cleverly been their point—but I actually found it to be racist. Parodies of hip hop culture often cross the line for me and when they are poorly executed they serve as a kind of racist shorthand. I found their portrayal of how rappers behave to be unfunny, hack—the swagger, 80s “wild style”, the rhythmic and verbal samples, the posturing—and meaningless. Would it have been just as funny if the target had been Hispanic musicians or Korean boy bands? Black people sho' is funny and you don’t even need them onstage to make fun of ‘em, white folk can ape them-score. Suspected racism aside—it was not funny in the way that racism should be when on the comedy stage. If you are going to do blackface, cork up. Go all the way or shuffle back to the fields, white Sambo.

I was particularly disappointed, embarrassed, and offended at Watts’ side portrayal of inner-city blacks. His performance is peppered with what I call a pidgin TV AAVE (you may know AAVE as Ebonics). Pidgin TV AAVE is the kind of speak that white performers and bourgeoisie black performers who perform for white audiences use specifically to denigrate urban black culture and get cheap laughs. It’s a nod and wink to look how these silly stupid blacks are, but not me, and by the way I am okay with them which is why I can do this, plus they are like that. It’s funny because I think it’s true and so do you. I know we have a black man in the White House, but what about these old stereotypes, they are much more comfortable—go ahead slip on one. An example of TV AAVE might be alternative conjugation of “to be”, non-standard pronunciation or creative nominalization of verbs as in-

We is edumacated in order to pronunciate the correct-emid vocabularaization for da enjoymentaion of do white folk, son.” And scene, back to “acting white”.

Shuffle, jive, scrape. The references are outdated, and at this point hack, but still work for audiences whose only contact with black culture is through mainstream white media outlets, through airplay, comedy or on the L train. This narrow viewpoint is apparently very entertaining. Some people call it comedy, I call it minstrelsy. White people will never tire of us acting a fool for them and we will do it as long as we get the approval we so desperately seek. When Watts alternates from person to persona and back to person it was always from an a upper class white male (usually foreign I guess to showcase his ability to do accents) to shuffling nigra and then back to “status quo”. The contrast is the cheap trick that gets laughs every time. It made me wince. I am thankful that he didn’t launch into making fun of black women, I think this is only because women have no place in his show, not even as the butt of lame jokes. Oh wait there was a woman- a leggy blonde who played his girlfriend. (The show is not diverse, Watts is the only obvious non-white.) To add to the minstrelsy, while doing the pigeon TV AAVE he did shuffle, mince, whine, bat, and roll his eyes. In fact, he did it all with the exception of pulling out a big juicy slice of watermelon and blacking up with some shoe polish. The hipsters loved it. Bereft of masculinity with his flyaway hair—I can’t dignify that rats’ nest by saying it’s a ‘fro—and unflattering “I went to school in Vermont” ensemble he is sure not offend or titillate audiences with any slightly noticeable ethnicity or manhood. At the same the fact that the looked actually unclean shows that he knows well his soap-dodging Brooklyn-dwelling ironically dressed audience.
I caught up with a few black audience members after we managed to escape the theatre—this was the first taping I had ever been to where members of the audience literally bolted for the exits while the show was in progress with many more watching to see if they would get their chance—and asked them what they thought about the show. We were of one mind as the words coonery, buffoonery, and minstrelsy were used to describe what we had witnessed. No of us could understand what the 30% of the audience who were laughing were laughing at. I treated my companion, whom I had dragged to the show and to whom I had to apologize, to a post show beer at a nearby restaurant. There we met another black woman who shared our distaste for the show. We actually bonded over it. As we tore the show apart, I thought about something Watts (the stage Watts) had said during his opening monologue—the secret to show business is not to be yourself. I hope what we saw was not, in fact, him.

Interview on Home, From Home

2010-09-13T15:04:00.005-04:00

The lovely Christabel Nsiah-Buadi, mini-media mogul and producer of Home, From Home: stories from the black global experience interviewed me the day before I left LA about my show "That's funny. You didn't sound black on the phone." She mixes in some sound bites from the show as well. Validation.
Thanks Christabel!

Full Interview on HFHSHOW.COM
Follow HOME, FROM HOME on Twitter and Facebook

HYKI Ep. 2 - The Supernatural: Real and Imagined

2010-09-11T22:07:00.002-04:00

Fresh from the studio Episode 2: The Supernatural
You say supernatural I say paranormal...
Discount celeb double header: Michael Cera vs. Jessie Eisenberg & Emma Stone vs. Lindsay Lohan
E.T. revisited
Not the TV show "Supernatural"
Advice on advice - how to rid your house of ghosts
The Supernatural/Animal Congress debate
Klu Klux Zombies
Trance writing and more
Please enjoy

hey you know it now on iTunes & twitter

2010-09-10T15:01:00.004-04:00

It took them a while to get with the HYKI program, but you can now enjoy Episode 1: Politics Faith No More on iTunes. Tomorrow morning my cohost Katie Kazimir and I will be heading out to our secret recording studio deep in the bowels of hipster infested Bushwick to record Episode 2: The Supernatural. In the second HYKI we tackle such salient issues as rods, ghosts, and the like and we answer listener mails. Episode 2 will air on 9/13/10 just in time for you 10:15 work slowdown. We are also getting a brand new logo this month thanks to Doug Muise Please enjoy. And please drop us a line at heyyouknowit@gmail.com or leave a comment on podbean.com.
Follow us at twitter.com/heyyouknowit

Wherein I "air out my shorts" Canadian Style

2010-09-09T13:32:00.003-04:00

I met The Word Whore, her nom de guerre, at a rooftop party in lower Manhattan. She tracked me down on Facebook and surprised me with a guest spot on her show--while I was waiting for the 7 bus. Here's what happened. WARNING: adult content, Canadian pervery, and scat chat. Enjoy.

Air out my shorts - http://www.airoutmyshorts.com/
Episode 142: Foreign Franks I come on around minute 14

Guest Blogging for LA LA

2010-09-08T18:49:00.005-04:00

I met Cindy Marie Jenkins on twitter when I was trying to create an audience and get some friends out in LA weeks before I would arrive for the Hollywood Fringe Festival. Due to my twitter near mastery she asked me to report back on my experiences in online outreach for the Fringe. Here is my response. Of course if you want the whole story...

http://cindymariejenkins.wordpress.com/2010/09/07/its-fringe-not-the-ring-cycle/

"Hey you know it" Podcast a go go

2010-08-30T12:17:00.004-04:00

After months of deliberation "Hey you know it" is finally online. Hey you know it is a collaboration between myself and comedian/writer and gad-about Katie Kazimir. In this soon to be bi-monthly podcast we will tackle tough issues and tell you how it is or how it should be. In our first episode, Politic:Faith no more we discuss such pressing and salient issues as
Faith in Politics
Voting: don't bother
What ever happened to Faith no more
Advice on advice (it's meta)
The Obama Happy Meal joke (and what happens after the laughter stops)
AND
Giovanni Ribisi serving Sam Rockwell at a 40% discount

Hey you know it is free for now.
Hell Yes. Please enjoy.

Top 10 Reasons to Marry a White Guy (for black chicks)

2010-06-08T16:40:00.007-04:00

In response to all the offensive and banal articles and ensuing comments regarding the status of the black woman and matrimony, I have decided to throw this little list together to feed and fan the flames of ignorance. Enjoy. Before you get your boxers in wad- I am a comedian. Send hate mail to ihavenosenseofhumour@gmail.com.

1. You get to sit in the front.

2. No In-laws. I mean technically if his parents are alive you will have in-laws, but you may not have to deal with them if they are bigots or if you can trick them into looking like bigots. Use your noodle on this one. The bonus comes when you have children. If they come around Archie Bunker-style you can them milk that white guilt for all it’s worth—at least $100 per visit. Start a college fund.

3. Mo’ money. It’s a fact that white men earn more money then their “obviously ethnic” (thanks W Kamau Bell) counterparts. Play your cards right and half of that is yours.

4. Slavery. White people are still benefitting economically from the effects of slavery. Why not get a little of that benefit from your man via a joint bank account. See #3.

5. Fewer all day trips to the hairdresser. Get rid of the weave, hell, even that relaxer. They won’t care if you rock a natural as long as they can touch it. They don’t expect you to have eurostyle hair. If they wanted that, well then they shouldn’t have strayed.

6. Lighter skinned kids. I don’t need to explain this one and don’t act like you hadn’t been avoiding particularly dark skinned brothers and Bangladeshis for the same shameful reason. We have been doing this for centuries; look around. I’m not condoning it, just saying…

7. Escape. If there is any part of black culture that you are not fond of, you are hereby released from it and are never expected to participate in it again. Use his white skin as a pass to head straight to go and collect $200. Get out of any familial, social, cultural or religious engagement you don’t care for. Claim that it is because you don’t want to go alone and you know he would feel uncomfortable. Hello free time.

8. Marriage. They love to get married and they will ask you usually without demanding that you change so much. Plus you know that if he is willing to marry a black chick, he is not just looking for an easy way out. He is not expecting a shrinking submissive violet so you can let your inner strong black woman (the one everyone keeps complaining about) shine.

9. They are easier to find. According to the census white folks make up almost 80% of the population. Black people are only 12%. Do the math.

10. Race is a myth. Love who you love.

Putting Tinseltown on Notice

2010-03-05T14:02:00.002-05:00

Congratulations to me. I finally pulled it together, made an application, tracked down a venue, and this June I will be hauling it out to Hollywood to participate in the first ever Hollywood Fringe Festival. I can't wait. So far I have booked four late night shows at the Hollywood Complex--and believe me I have late night material in my new one woman show. Read the blurb below.

“That’s funny. You didn’t sound black on the phone.” is a dark comedy, solo show by NYC-based comedian and screenwriter Jacquetta Szathmari. Reared in extreme rural Maryland, Szathmari tells three tales of negotiating class and race in an intellectual vacuum where attitudes have changed little since slavery.
In “Don’t Give Up on Black People” memories of a playground ultimatum are conjured by a greeting card found in a Harlem hair salon.
“The Preppy Handbook” explains how and why a 4th grade Jacquetta schemed for a life of crew races, bold Laura Ashley floral prints, and boarding school—and ended up in Delaware.
The concluding piece, “Probably about Church”, is not about soul saving. Not in the least.
Special guest star Kendra Ware with "The Porn Show"

Like what you see? Support my project on the Fringe site or leave a lovely comment--it's free. As soon as I can figure it out I will put up some clips on my sites and of course there will be a NYC premiere (probably several). Stay tuned.

Shoutin' Lager, Lager, Lager

2008-09-18T15:50:00.007-04:00

I am addicted to Pandora.com. It has neatly filled the space left when I stopped listening to radio. The site allows you to make a streaming station based on an artist or a song. Then, its oh-so-right-on algorithm creates a station of similar songs and artists. I recently created a Chemical Brothers station and based on the song suggested by their complex formula, I have learned a lot about myself:

I am living in the 90's.

I imagine myself going to Mohegan Sun in the 1930's and gently rocking out to Prodigy's the fat of the land. I'll probably be wearing designer jeans and showing off the tattoo sleeves and platinum nose ring I was finally able to afford.

Lyrics are no friend of mine.

I prefer if people just shout our random words or murmur quasi-deep phrases that reverb forever. I screw up the lyrics to everything anyway - with electronica there is less to screw up. Anyway, its about the beats man.

I wish I was foreign.

I reminisce about the music I heard in Glaswegian pubs - the one short summer I was there on a bogus work visa and miss the highlands like I ever saw them. Oh those 3 months were the days and the memories of the coldest least sober summer of my adult life overshadow those of my domestic childhood. What about the 4 nights I went clubbing on the banks of the Danube? A boozy eve in Brussels? Ahh I remember it well.

In a past life I was a Moog.

Enough said.

I'd Rather Be Doing This

2008-04-14T17:55:00.002-04:00

ain't i funny

2008-03-04T21:31:00.002-05:00

Following the links from a piece of mail in my inbox, I came upon a post on Gawker - a trying to be snarky/relevant response to a response to a response to Christopher Hitchens’ article entitled "Why Women Aren't Funny”. First of all, who is Christopher Hitchens, why are people still reading Vanity Fair and why is anyone dignifying his article with any type of response? Who cares how men, in general, supposedly feel about female comics? Personally, I can’t say that it has any affect on me and what I am doing, nor should anyone allow it to affect what they are doing in the business.

I have been performing stand up in one capacity or another for about five years in New York City. It has been a long slow road but I feel that things are beginning to pay off. I have managed to graduate from doing bringers, to getting booked and have even gotten to produce and MC some great shows. I feel I am earning the respect of my peers and treating my material and audiences right. So far, I have gotten out of comedy what I have put into it and I don’t think growing a pair would have gotten me any further. On the contrary, I think it might have hurt my performance as I tried to squeeze by on the fact that most of the audience were like me- this is assuming I was both male and white – and just get up there sans punch line or originality and do what many others are doing namely being white and male and complaining.

What I think actually hurts women starting out in comedy is the fact that female and female friendly audiences are scared away by what can be seen in most clubs on any given night. Why would a woman or anyone who likes women want to pay upwards of $15 (not including the required drink minimum) to sit through an hour and half of “my nonexistent girlfriend is a bitch”, “all women are bitches (because none of them will sleep with me), “I can’t get a bitch”, “can you bitches tell how deep in the closet I am, bitch?” and the ever popular “bitches bitch bitching bitch” from a man who more often than not looks like he habitually sleeps in his clothing?

I once left a show at Caroline’s when the headliner started complaining about how his girlfriend wanted to spend too much time with him AND even have conversations with him. At first it was somewhat funny and then it became clear that he was just another misogynist and that there was probably no girlfriend; he just wanted to complain about women for the few cheap laughs he got. Why would a female comic want to go on stage after that kind of crap? Why should she have to? We should set up a dating service for these guys just so they can get some new premises. If you can’t understand how this creates and uncomfortable situation just replace the word bitch with “nigger’ or “faggot” the word women with African-Americans or homosexuals. It’s a hostile environment, not really what I am looking for when I go to see a comedy show. When I first started doing bringers I had plenty of girlfriends come to shows – ONCE. I got them back when I started doing all female shows. A lot of club owners and bookers assume that female comics won’t bring in a crowd. Maybe a single female comic won’t pack the , because of the phenomenon cited earlier, but a bunch will.

Another obstacle for female comedy fans is the club atmosphere. Remember, women have higher expectations for going out. We tend not to like bathrooms that resemble outhouses and bars that resemble frat houses. I once worked at a club whose women’s facilities were missing both a floor and a toilet seat and you had to share your drink with a water bug. This does not inspire repeat business. If you clean it, they will come. And when they do come they will order mixed drinks and eat if you can offer an option that does not look like it belongs at a street food vendor’s cart (can you hear the sound of the cash register). But, by all means if you don’t want the scratch keep it a boy’s club.

Another interesting aspect of this “women aren’t funny thing” is race. I would love Mr. Hitchen’s to put his views in Essence and see how far that got. I think the majority of the responses would begin with “who”. I have never gotten the feeling from the white male comics that I have worked with that we, black female comics, were not funny. Maybe it’s because they see us as no competition because we are supposedly going for a different audience or maybe we don’t look like all those girls in high school who wouldn’t sleep with them or because they think saying it would be somehow racist. But, I hope this is due to the way black female comics take a no holds barred approach to their audiences and assume coming on stage that there is a commonality- being that we are all human despite how we behave. We believe, no, we know we are funny – just like we know we are cute - and no one else is going to tell us different.

hate.com

2008-02-15T22:43:00.003-05:00

A friend, who knows I love good satire above most else, sent me a link to a blog called stuffwhitepeoplelike. It was hilarious, almost as hilarious as the comments the postings elicited. First of all I was shocked to learn that so many people were unable to recognize the blog as satire. One would think that the title would be a tip off. Secondly, why are so many self identified white people concerned about how they are viewed as a group ostensibly by other white people (aren’t white people the audience) and why can’t they take a joke? With all the relative power that Americans calling themselves white have enjoyed in the history of this country is there any chance that this blog will bring them down with some well penned observations? Apparently so. Or perhaps they feel that unlike every other group in this country they should not be the butt of jokes, even if they are their own. What cheek! I liked the comments of those attempting to disassociate themselves from the posts claiming that the site was not about their type of white person but really the other type...

Personally, I would love to see a similar website about African-Americans executed in such a manner. Although I may be alone in that because I see little evidence that we as a whole are ready for some much needed self criticism and self examination wrapped in a hard sardonic shell.

I followed a few of the posted comments back to their sources to find out just what sorts of people were offended by the site. One of the sites, a re-reporting site, was particularly disturbing. The author in addition to being an overt racist and a poor writer is a coward; he does not identify himself on the site. His posts are limited to retelling news events that show black people in a particularly harsh manner. For example one item features a story about a black mother who beat her infant to death for soiling his diaper. He pegs the site as

“a political and social commentary blog which may include some conservative content not suitable for everyone: especially not liberal blacks and jews — Phhht!”

I am not sure what “Phhht” is supposed to mean, perhaps it is the sound of the air seeping out of his fatuous head and I am unclear as to why “liberal blacks and jews” have been singled out as people who might be offended by this guy’s shtick. Apparently Black conservatives like James McWhorter and Condoleezza Rice (still Black) and Christians, Muslims and those of Eastern faiths might enjoy a story like the timely “Nigger Parenting 101 - Death for Poop!- I know I did.

But not to be outdone, there are even more ignorant people than Mr. closet racist. A look at the comments on his site takes one even further into the world of hate.com. There are actually people who agree with this loon and are willing to put in writing. This freak, iranianforaryans.blogspot.com, also too much of a coward to identify himself has similar blogs targeting Jews and Latinos. Judging from his posts, he is a racist struggling to understand why people don’t want to give him or his cohorts an outlet for fomenting hatred. Go figure? Luckily he can foment for free online and you can email him from his site if you want to tell him how the evil Jews stopped you from getting that Malibu Barbie for Xmas when they killed Jesus.

At the end of the day it doesn’t matter what these poor deluded self loathing wanna-be miscreants think, but it sure is amusing to ponder their efforts from the comfort of my apartment snuggled up next to my white husband in our predominantly Jewish community and know that they will never be successful.

and now for something completely different

2008-02-12T22:15:00.003-05:00

I have been oh so busy this past 6 weeks helping with the launch of mainstreet.com that all my creative juices have ceased to flow. So, instead of some snarky (is that what the young folk call it?) commentary, I offer this photo of me with BD Wong from Law & Order. I met him at a Tupperware promo party held at the 40/40 club and thrown by Ice-T. That's right Ice-T. He did say that Tupperware was "gangsta". I don't disagree.

I'se 'Cept Yo 'Pology

2008-01-03T14:13:00.000-05:00

208 years after New Jersey passes its gradual emancipation law New Jersey lawmakers are considering giving a formal apology to African Americans for the state's role in the institution of slavery.

I’se say, “No, prah-blem ole massa. I’s gonna accep’ yo ‘pology.”

Well it’s about time. It looks like things are finally turning around for us African Americans. Just last year the NAACP held funeral rites for the dreaded N word and black women even got an apology from pickled shock jock Don Imus. No one can overlook the serious ramification of those crucial political actions.

Perhaps once New Jersey apologizes, following the lead of Southern states like Maryland and Mississippi (both bastions of racial harmony and fiscal, political and social equality) New Jersey blacks and whites[1] can begin to live in racial harmony the way they were meant to. I know Trenton can’t wait.

I am going to keep my ears glues to the radio to hear if they make an affirmative vote to apologize. Once the intent to apologize has been issue we united African Americans can contact our appointed leader, Al Sharpton, and ask him to make himself available to accept the apology. If he is too busy getting his perm touched up or attending to constituents I understand that both Salt and Pepa of the eponymous female rap duo both live in Short Hills. They haven’t been busy lately and might do the honors. Frankly, they need the work.

I am glad and I know that the taxpayers of the state of New Jersey are also glad that their lawmakers are using the time for which they are handsomely paid debating such important matters and not whiling the time away with the coming budgetary, educational and healthcare crises. At very least, post-apology the NJ state government can begin to unravel the web of welfare and affirmative action programs oppressing the black community as they will no longer be relevant. Words and gestures are better more comforting and much more fiscally prudent. Perhaps when they have finished healing all wounds within the Black community they can begin to make amends with Native Americans perhaps let them open a few casinos.

One can dream.

[1] By whites I mean authentic whites, you know - Anglo Saxons. By the way,others (Asians, Latinos, Mediterranean, Slavic types etc.) probably weren’t on the scene yet and so can continue to hate on blacks without apology. Good news.

2008-01-02T19:40:00.000-05:00

LIVE UPTOWN!
(way, way uptown)
Monday January 7^t, 2008 7pm

An Beal Bocht Café
445 W 238^th St.
No Cover. No Minimum.

Hosted by Jacquetta Szathmari with
Emmy Rivera
Emily Epstein
Clea Wilson
Rich Shultis
April Brucker
Ken Perlstein
& Headliner Sassi Keegan

Jacquetta Szathmari and Sassi Keegan bring the funny uptown - to Riverdale. Yes, the train goes there. So get out your metrocard and come find out why it is funnier in the Bronx!

Directions

#1 to 238^th street. Walk west 2 blocks and up several flights of stair. The bar is at the top of the stairs on the north side of the street.

A train to 207^th st. Take the #7 bus (Riverdale) heading north. Exit at 238^th and Riverdale avenue. Walk 2 blocks east on 238^th st. The bar is on the north side of the street. Note: a black cab from 207^th is about $8-10. You can haggle.

Marathon Music

2007-12-30T22:35:00.000-05:00

The end of the year means TV marathons. So far this holiday season I have subjected my brain to far more than the recommended dose of, the Met RX Strongest Man in the World Competition Highlights (go Pudzianowski !), the Deadliest Catch.. As much as I love the rare sight of watching men do manly stuff without harming or oppressing I couldn’t make it through more than a few episodes of either show because of the recent inclusion of foux hard core/ faux metal soundtracks. There is no more incongruous accompaniment to a man pulling up a trap full of Alaskan crabs while dodging a rogue wave in the Bering Sea than a “song” by Korn that sounds like it should be on the soundtrack of the sequel to The Crow. I should be listening to the roar of the ocean. Isn’t that why I have surround sound? Can’t I have a moment’s peace without being assaulted by bands whose man idea of antidisestablishmentarianism is to reverse the letters in their names and wear clown makeup while complaining about either sex or freedom or sexual freedom? I found the answer was no when I switched over to the Met RX competition for relief only to find that they were attempting to flog a soundtrack between events. When I am watching a 700 pound Swede fling ten 50 lb kegs over a fourteen foot high steel wall or his Norwegian counterpart pull a Mac truck with a shoulder harness the last thing I want is a Mastodon tune blaring in my ears. I don’t want a Hatebreed power ballad either. I want to hear the crowd cheering. If I can’t have that at and there must be electric guitars and angst can I at least get some Minor Threat, Metallica, Henry Rollins, or Steve Vai? I guess I am getting old.

Comedy Vs. Big Pharma

2007-12-07T08:53:00.000-05:00

This morning in a strange turn of events I woke up an hour earlier than I had to. It was a simple mistake on my part, I forgot to review my schedule last night before going to bed. Since the main reason for my getting up relatively early is to trek down to Chinatown to have someone stick needles in my extremities fro relaxation I am surprised that I leapt out of bed with such purpose. It appears as though I may have gotten a good night's sleep and was for the first time in weeks well rested.
I have never been good at sleeping. I could never fall asleep easily as a child. Out of frustration I used to bang my head against the mattress in the hopes of knocking myself out. It usually worked before I got a headache. As an adult I substitute watching late night 1 hour dramas for the head banging; the effect is basically the same.
Still last night I managed to fall asleep quickly without a Law and Order (CI of course, I just can't stand the USA generated CI) marathon, booze or a visit from that little dayglo pharma butterfly. So I had to think about what made yesterday different from the days proceeding the sleepless nights. The only difference I could think of was that last night I had a late gig before which I ran 4 miles at the gym. So basically if I want to get a good nights sleep I need to book at least a 7 minute set in a evening comedy show and become a marathon runner.
No problem. Great! Why couldn't that Lunesta have worked?

The Hole In My Knowledge

2007-12-06T16:47:00.001-05:00

I read New York Magazine regularly to give my brain a rest and to get new material. The magazine never fails. In every issue there is something worth poking fun at. This week’s cover was particularly offensive or hilarious depending on your point of view. The cover is a close up photo of a beautiful Asian model lovingly cradling a well manicured foot. Her mouth is dangerously close to the foot and looks as if she is about to give it some sort of happy ending. It’s basically a fetish shot. I was discussing the cover photo with some fellow comedians and one commented that the shot was simply playing on popular Asian stereotypes to sell a cheap rag.

“Fair enough.” I responded but they had gotten it all wrong. I wish my pedicurist was half that sexy. Most of the pedicurists I have had have looked as chewed up and haggard as I do when I bust in there (only from Mon. to Wed. to get the $20 mani/pedi deal). They then proceed to manhandle my hooves like pieces of meat until they mildly resemble feet again. Don’t get me wrong, I get what I pay for and there are other options if I don’t like. I am sure they would tell me both if I voiced that opinion in their shop.

The piece accompanying the cover is what you may expect- and attempt to lend a quasi sociopolitical scholarly angle to the fact that most women neither want to nor could maintain their own hands, feet, brows, bikini line etc to the standards that are set by the beauty industrial complex (aka Big Beauty). At the end of the day, dissertation findings aside, if you can pay someone do something for you which makes life easier you will do so. And yes, yes we know these women are exploited by other women who themselves are probably just narrowly escaping exploitation by exploiting others. Tell us something we don’t know.

The most interesting part of the article, relegated to a side bar, featured a woman who took her exploitative bosses to task and won. But if they had focused on her the article would have been transformative and empowering. Less time would have been wasted (I mean spent) discussing the women who receive the services and one fortunate and well paid soul who really enjoys providing them.

But back to the “tell us something we don’t know….”

Why is the article on page 90 about “You” at Gavin Brown’s Enterprise a review and not an expose? “You” by Urs Fischer is a gallery installation that consists of a hole in the ground. The “artist” spent $250,000 dollars to break through the floor of the gallery to create a 30 by 30 foot hole which reviewer Jerry Saltz upgrades by calling it a crater. I have never seen such an obvious use of a thesaurus in my life. It’s a hole in the ground! A hole that can’t even be sold to the ridiculously rich, money laundering, “I’ll by a carcass in formaldehyde if you say its art” crowd.

I hope someone falls in “You” and everyone gets sued. Or better yet I hope it rains and “You” becomes a puddle and then someone falls in it and everyone gets sued. In any case someone needs to get sued because there is some serious fraud going on. Mr. Saltz then has the gall to compare this work to actual art when he should be comparing it to, well, a hole in the ground, which it is. Apparently making holes is Fisher’s shtick. Nice work if you can get it. The real work of art here is the writer’s use of language to try to bring substance to “You” although really someone ought to sue him as well. Just because. This is what happens when people have no incentive to make money or contribute to society. I think the terrorists may have won.

PS Stop Killing Trees

2007-12-05T13:33:00.000-05:00

In the past week I have been trying to rid myself of junk email. I have unsubscribed from the dozen or so websites that I authorized to send me updates because they send too much mail too often. How often does Sephora have to tell me about a new lip gloss? Do I need a Borders coupon everyday? Is the new Comedy Central line up really new? Do I care?

At least junk email is easily disposed of which is more than I can say for regular junk mail. This holiday season I have been inundated with junk snail mail from all sources. I regularly receive appeals to give my expendable income to stop no less than ten different ailments ranging from cancer to cleft lips. Daily I receive catalog from companies resembling upscale dollar stores who sell a variety of Chinese manufactured item destined for landfills. I even get free short term magazine subscriptions from periodicals who obviously do not know what demographic I occupy. To keep up the junk correspondence here is what I have to say to today's junk mail senders.

Dear Rolling Stone,
Your magazine is a rag which is why you are sending it to me for free after I ignored your offers of increasingly cheap subscriptions. The Led Zeppelin picture on the cover made me think it was a mis-delivery by the AARP monthly mag. I get them by accident sometimes.
PS I don't buy music, why would I buy a magazine about it? People read online now. Stop killing trees.

Dear Sarah Lawrence College,
The amount of money you have wasted on heavy jewel toned card stick printed with toxic ink is far greater than the amount of money I will give you, which is to say I will not give you any money. Your choice of stationary reminds me that you are doing fine. Next time send a postcard; it easier to recycle.
PS I am still paying off the student loans I had to take out after you cleverly cut my financial aid in my final year. People give online now. Stop killing trees.

Dear Hammecher Schle-whatever,
As much as I love looking at the ridiculous items in your catalog (Ipod dogs etc) I have yet to buy anything from you. Have you seen Sharper Image? Somebody is biting on somebody's style...
PS People shop online now. Stop killing trees

Dear WAMU,
Could the money you are squandering on surplus mailings and the staff that create them be used to increase the thin interest rate on my accounts?
PS People bank online now. Stop killing trees.

Coffee Direct

2007-11-15T12:51:00.000-05:00

I was looking for a coffee place in midtown east that was cheap and no nonsense. Because I am unfamiliar with that part of town I went to www.nymag.com for a recommendation. I narrowed my search by neighborhood, type of restaurant and cost; the third of the criteria shortened the list from five options to four. I had to choose between a kosher, non-dairy, meat free restaurant (I need milk in my coffee), a salad place I vaguely remember someone called a yuppie scum lunch time pick up spot, a place where "Conde-Nasties" pretend to digest whole foods and a place run by an investment house. I went with the lesser of the four evils.

So, today I am meeting a friend for coffee at the ING Direct cafe. That's right they have a cafe... in Manhattan... and they proudly serve Peets coffee and advice on investment strategies. When I called to find out if it were in fact a true cafe they tried to give me advice on banking right upfront. I am imagining barristas with their Series 7s and waiters who leave you tips... on the stock market that is. I hope the theme of the decor is fat dividends. ING even offers free coffee coupons to new customers, although I am not sure if they mean new banking customers or new cafe customers. Free coffee is free coffee, I just hope I can get out of there without being convinced to switch my accounts from Fidelity , who by the way don't even offer bagels in the office. Maybe I can get a copy of the WSJ since my delivery guy seems to be on strike.

Lost Baggage

2007-11-08T18:58:00.000-05:00

I was reminded of my former obsession with luggage when I saw an antique leather case doubling as a side table on a home decorating show. Somewhere in my mother’s home, possibly succumbing to mildew, is a similar case purchased from a second hand store either in Seattle or Oakland. Throughout my early twenties I bought suitcases old and new. I searched Salvation Army Stores and second hand shops for vintage leather cases and carry-ons and decorated my room with them. One winter to make money enough to return to college I worked for bags store in a local discount strip mall. The sting of working retail was softened by my affection for the merchandise. I thoroughly enjoyed arranging and rearranging the suitcase displays and loved telling customers about our products. My sales record was phenomenal and I used some of the money from my last paycheck to buy a top of the line roll aboard with my employee’s discount. I dreamed of one day owning a full five piece set of vintage Louis Vuitton trunks. I thought I was going somewhere.

Evil Smurf

2007-11-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

I have always been a scaredy cat with an overactive imagination. As a child I had nightmares that every night Evil Smurf was standing just outside my bedroom door waiting to get in and bite me. Unfortunately for him, this blue devils's dimensions were exactly one inch larger than that of my door frame. The fact that he could not get in the room, I imagined, made him so angry that both his eyes and razor sharp incisors were blood red. It seemed logical. As long as I stayed in bed half suffocating under the covers I was safe. If I had to use the bedroom in the middle of the night I would violently fling myself out of bed across the hallway to the bath room and click on the light. The trip was about 5 feet total but it seemed long and perilous. Once in the bathroom I had to wait for what seemed like a full minute as the florescent lights came on. First they would hum and pop, scaring the Smurf away, and finally light the room. The bathroom was a Smurf free zone. On the return journey I always made sure to flush and run at the same time; the flushing sound would cover my footsteps and distract the blue menace buying me enough time to get back to bed and safely under the covers. The the covers, door frame, florescent light and the flush were magic items that kept me safe.

I had safety rituals and protective totems for every imaginary monster including the local hillside dwelling yeti, the fox head peeping tom who could pass through window screens and the frozen leviathan from John Carpenter's "The Thing" living under the hall floorboards. Every night I was running through the house from room to room just to stay alive. As I got older the monsters only got more sophisticated. Large creatures developed the ability to shrink in order to get into closets, chest and even dresser drawers. They knew exactly where to lurk where I could only catch a glimpse of them. I longed for gullible Evil Smurf who was brazen enough to let himself be seen in full and got scared away by loud plumbing. I was unhappy that monster pathology had somehow changed.

As an adult I am usually able to control these kind of fears or at least I don't have as much time to indulge them- usually. Yesterday I was in the shower when I noticed that the door was open slightly. Neither my dog nor my husband were at home so I had the radio on to provide background noise. All of a sudden I got paranoid that there was a zombie, a midget zombie or possibly and an evil monkey zombie just outside the door. (I had seen at least 4 zombie movies in the past week and i have always hated primates- they have hands). I tried to peer through the cracks nonchalantly to see if anyone or anything were there. Then I thought - If he knows I am looking he will reposition himself so as not to be seen, let me just continue to shower casually.
Wait, what the f*ck is wrong with me. Am I crazy. Has my line of thinking gone to crazy town? I castigated myself for my thoughts. I had to get ahold of myself and regain some logic.

If there were a zombie of any kind out there- simian or otherwise- why would it care if I saw it? If that thing is going to attack, it will attack. I'm in the shower, I got nothing, no defenses, not even a loofah on a stick. Then I thought maybe he had a plan, wanted to add some finesse to the attack. I put myself in his shoes (paws) and tried to think how I would plan it out- a thinking man's murderous brain craving zombie spider monkey.
By the time I had figured it out the shower was over; I had lost interest and guess so had he. When I got out there was as always no one there, not even a sign.

Aloha Niggers

2007-11-05T14:33:00.000-05:00

After participating in a conference on interracial dating I met with my husband and his friends for to discuss current events and finally got the full story about Dog the Bounty Hunter’s racist rant. Dog, The Bounty Hunter is mindless, fairly nonviolent show starring redneck with a criminal past, minimal education who hunts down minor criminals on the mean streets of The Big Island. Who could he call a nigger in Hawaii? I am not aware of a black community in Hawaii and I had never seen any black people on the show or even any dark skinned Latinos. Maybe he hurled the N word at some vacationing African Americans. Highly unlikely. Perhaps he was using it, like so many New Yorkers, as a synonym for man, dude or guy or maybe he was using it as a term of endearment, for the guys on his running crew. Could it be that he was joking around; despite what liberals and scholars say an elegantly placed “nigger please!” or “what’s up my niggers” can be quite comic. I tried to think of a scenario in which he would get the N word out Hawaiian style but came up empty, so I went hypothetical with it: If he had said it why oh why would anyone let it get captured on tape? Any such tape would be immediately destroyed to protect the show and the salaries who work on the show. It’s not exactly DVD extras material.

Finally, I let our friend share the actual story with us. Apparently, his son taped a phone conversation in which Dog did refer to his son’s girlfriend as the offending epithet multiple times. His son then turned the tape over to the media who made a field day out of it. Well some made a field day out of it while other fellow racists in the media rallied around Dog to try to salvage the damage he had done to himself. There is no way that he could have written the hollow apology he read on FOX; it was both eloquent and grammatically correct. I liked the finesse of adding an “aloha” to the black community. That means a lot to us. Can we really accept an apology from a man who doesn’t even love his own son enough restrain from verbally attacking the woman he loves with the ugliest word in our cultural lexicon? You have got to have strong convictions backed by a lot of hate to say nigger the way he did. If he must apologize he should do so for simply getting caught which is probably what he is really sorry about. Like Michael Richards and Mel Gibson, he can let his money comfort him until this whole thing is relegated to the back pages by some silly celeb’s sexcapades or until someone else says nigger. This should take about a fortnight.

The perverse thing is that everyone is so worried about Dog as if he’s any kind of victim. Some people even suggested that we should pray for him (we should pray that some brother doesn’t kick his ass on the streets) This is his creation, I say fuck him and let him stew in it. I feel concern for his son and applaud him for what he did. It was obviously a very difficult decision to make to expose his father as a bigot. It certainly must be embarrassing and I wonder how the girlfriend feels. I have a similar situation with my husband’s father and I only wish I could get him on tape proclaiming his racism. It thrills me when racists come clean and even more so when they say nigger because there is no going back. This kind of bigot outing is vital to a society which is constantly trying to sweep racism under the carpet. This country is racist, it was founded on racist principles and is unlikely to have shaken them off in a scant few centuries. Our public figures’ speech and behavior as well as our responses to them merely reflect this reality.

Real TV for Women

2007-10-31T18:19:00.000-04:00

Last night I watched the Oh! Network for the first time- and totally by accident. It was late. It was early morning hours of Halloween and I wanted to watch a decent non coed-slasher scary movie. After flipping through the dials and having my low brow senses assaulted by “entertainment” such as Dracula 3000 and Halloween XX I was delighted to see that the second installment of the Resident Evil Franchise was on. What real woman doesn’t love an ass kicking female protagonist? Generally I despise supermodels, or even minor models, turned actress but I can handle Milla J because she doesn’t try to tackle dialogue. She basically runs, jumps and delivers quick successions of blows to her CG opponents. The story aspect of the film is kept to a minimum. After watching for a few minutes a bubbly pink logo appeared at the bottom of the screen; I was watching the Oxygen network and didn’t even realize it.

I had always avoided Oh! figuring that since its only real competition was the Lifetime (TV for battered white women) Network the programming would be similar. Au contraire. During the commercial break in addition to scores of weight loss, yeast infection, lotion and birth control ads they ran a series of vignettes featuring local female comics explaining what do say and how to react to a bad kisser. They were quite funny and very realistic. I actually paid attention instead of muting the TV like I usually do. After the movie ended at 3am I was still unable to sleep so I lingered in front of the set to see what was on next. The next show began as normal, a nice looking young woman came on to a generic low budget talk show set. I assumed it was some kind of infomercial or a feed from HSN. My interest waned and I began to tidy up the room. It was way past my bedtime. I picked up some empty plates and glasses and took them to the kitchen. When I returned to finish cleaning off the coffee table I noticed that another young woman had come on the set and she was talking to the host about feeling les than comfortable buying certain items. Then a web address appeared at the bottom of the screen- www.shoperotic.com .

Well, well, well. The two women proceeded to pull out and candidly discuss the purchase and usage of various vibes, dongs, double dongs and strap-ons as if it were a Martha Stewart show on cake decorating. They knew their stuff. They even had a phone number for women to call if they wanted to speak only to female phone representatives and the host made frequent assurances about the discretion of item delivery. The prices were good, the merchandise top of the line (so I’ve heard…), the whole outfit was very impressive. Now, that’s TV for women.

I Heart Candy Corn

2007-10-30T21:30:00.000-04:00

For me Halloween is not about SamHain and the thinning of the veils between our world and the spirit world. It is not about parading around in a fishnetted sexy costume version of a typically female profession, woodland creature or comic book character. Its about Brach's candy corn . (Brach's makes the only acceptable brand. Please don't waste my time with the cellophane bagged no name variety with the stapled paper on top. )
I love seasonal candies - candy corn, peeps and the weird chewy holiday candy with the Xmas tree in the middle. I like the idea that their availability is limited and that they come in small quantities.
Having been on vacation for the better part of October, I had totally forgotten that Halloween was approaching. It took me a few minutes last Saturday to figure out that the skanky looking women on the subway car we in fact in costume and not working. In any case at 8:45 tonight all of a sudden I got a craving for candy corn. I made an announcement about it and my husband, G agreed to accompany me on a trek around Riverdale in search of the tri-colored triangular treat. We didn't have to go far; in this town with the current demographic drugstores are plentiful. There were a few bags left and they were only 99 cents. I remember them being much more expensive perhaps Brach's has fallen on hard times.

Ansible Online

2007-10-29T17:41:00.000-04:00

An ansible is a hypothetical machine, capable of superluminal communication, and used as a plot device in science fiction literature. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ansible

I am a creature of habit and extremely risk averse in every aspect of life including my choice in reading material. Event the causal reader of this blog knows that I read the WSJ everyday- even their crappy weekend edition- and that I eschew the reading of fiction. I especially do not enjoy science fiction, so I was surprised that Orson Scott Card’s Speaker of the Dead was able to consume more than a few of my at-the-beach honeymoon days. Speaker is the second part of a trilogy involving a central character trying to reverse the effects of a xenocide (that’s right Xen) that he unwittingly committed as a child. In any case, it is years in the future and the human races has spread like locusts to approximately one hundred worlds in our universe and is one of only three known sentient species. While the human race in the book has managed to master space travel they have yet to discovered how to travel faster than the speed of light AKA time travel. And thank goodness because that is where I draw the line. The are two things I cannot work with in a Sci-fi piece, one is time travel and the other is robots with human emotions. I can take anything grossly oversized, aliens of all sorts, smart viruses, computers gone haywire and hell bent on human destruction, changelings, multiple comets heading towards earth, evil drows, Cheney… whatever nasty fantastical thing might appear on a sci-fi tv original or be in a sci-fi book club collection. I can take it, but something about time travel and moody robots just turns me off.

The idea of an ansible however interests me greatly. It sounds like a kind of smart internet that uses space particles instead of fiber optic wiring to instantaneously transfer information between terminals that may be decades of light years away. And it never breaks down.

In the novel, a colony of possibly renegade possible revolutionary earthlings is considering (I am in the third book , Xenocide, and still don't know the outcome) severing communication with the rest of the colonized worlds, including the motherland, by disconnecting from the ansible. One figure remarks that without that connection they would be utterly alone. At that moment I thought – So what. They are already a whole world surely they could make a go of it. They wouldn’t really be alone. Puny humans.

I thought of this heartfelt response again while I was scrambling around on the floor cursing my half an hour loss of internet connection. Literally, I felt I couldn’t get anything accomplished without it.

Puny human.

11/26 @ New World Stages TONY LOUNGE

2007-10-28T02:52:00.000-04:00

Thanks Vicki!

Laugh Out Loud @ 10pm
Time Out New York Lounge @ New World Stages
340 West 50th, (between 8th and 9th)
Saturday, October 27th

Starring:

Jacquetta Szathmari from Comix!
Shawn Hollenbach and Jenny Rubin from MAX Show!
Blanca Dominguez from Don't Tell Mamas!
Helen Hong from E! Entertainment!
Stephanie Sine from the Duplex!
and musical guest Wendy Ho!
Hosted by Vicki Ferentinos

Not Mold but Mildew

2007-10-27T13:41:00.000-04:00

Whenever something “goes wrong” for me in New York I have to remind myself that I did not move here because this is a good place to live but because it has enough people with expendable income to pay me to tell jokes.

Last Tuesday I returned from a 3 week honeymoon/vacation in the Carribean. Weeks before I left I was already dreading the return. I was going to places that were sunny clean and compared to NYC stress free. I would be eating food that was fresh and delicious instead of pretentious, concept and PR driven - food that did not need to be accompanied by a celebrity sighting or an article by someone with dubious kitchen experience but with an axe to grind against anyone who dared to open a restaurant. For 21 plus days I would be spared the gory details of the celebutante set and would not have to take spotty dignity-usurping public transportation or see dirty starving “artists” or see the word tastemaker. When it rained I would not have to worry that the next puddle I stepped in might be a dangerous mix of city waste and DNA. I was unlikely to encounter the basic “why do I have to have this shitty job” aggression and petty hipster faux underclass angst that is sadly a part of New York life. I knew that even after just a fortnight I would be spoiled making my return to Gotham seem like a prison sentence the moment I set foot in that excuse of a transport hub called JFK.

I spent a great part of my last week away trying to think happy thoughts about the city. Still high on The Four Hour Work Week, given to me by the one person I know who has a chance to implement its strategies, I mentally made lists of how I would simplify my life when I got back in order to achieve my goals of being a fulltime entertainer and a achieve world domination or at least a fat market share. If I just kept that in mind I would be fine I thought. Stay positive, visualize… all that quasi/pseudo psych crap.

Then I smelled the mold. Actually the managing agent told me it was mildew as mold doesn’t smell. Phew! Well now I feel better.

Sometime while G and I were sunning ourselves on one of the Riviera Maya’s most self conscious beaches amidst the preening blue eyed light skinned Mexican nouveau riche (I’m guessing they were not the descendants of the Maya who culture is so aggressively used for marketing purposes but those of the conquistadors whom they pretend to vilify) pools of water were making their way from an overflowing tub a floor above us through our ceiling and then to our floor in an attempt to reach the basement. Welcome home.

The roaches love it!

This is not the first time this has happened to me in New York, but this I own the mildewed damp and rotting apartment. And it is also the first time that the apartment is my place of work.

If only it would stop raining.

The honeymoon endeth

2007-10-25T23:45:00.000-04:00

... and now back to comedy.

Hola

2007-10-14T12:38:00.000-04:00

las vegas sumo, having just gotten hitched, is on hiatus in Jamaica and Mexico and will return on October 25 with a full account.
Adios!

Morning Cake Walk

2007-09-10T10:34:00.000-04:00

Every morning I walk my dog dodging the sea of black babysitters who are pushing their cream colored charges up an down the sidewalks of tony Riverdale. For several reasons this mammy parade never ceases to annoy me. The women always look like they are in a daze. I supposed I would be to if I had gone through the pain and hassle of immigration only to become "the help". I can't help but wonder what their children are doing while they are steering little poorly behaved Ian and Abby (much to old to be in a stroller, but becoming accustomed to luxury) 'round the block. At least they aren't as bad off as the women I see dubbed "mother's helpers" who accompany the worlds laziest mothers on local outings trailing three feet behind with baby SUV carriage and baggage in tow. But, you do what you have to do. I just wich they wouldn't avoid eye contact with me. Perhaps they sense my annoyance and perceive it as judgment. Maybe they are just tired. I don't know how they do it.

When I walk around I imagine people are surprised to see me without a white baby in a stroller or holding the hand of a feisty octogenarian in the care of the very people she moved here to get well away from back in the 6os. Very surprised. Even more surprised when they find out that I live here and (gasp) am not even a renter! Because I cannot speak to everyone I have decided that I will get a t-shirt printed reading

I am not a nanny/housekeeper/home health care aid

I can't wait to move. I can't change the negative socio-economic effects on people of color of this country but I still don't want to see it: the ostrich appraoch.

WOW

2007-08-30T12:25:00.000-04:00

Wow, did a whole month go by without a new post? Why am I asking you? Anyway- I am back and by back i mean I am here. I didn't really go anywhere. So you can look forward to some fresh content as I devote myself to producing a post a day. You can hold me to that. In the meantime check out this new bit on video. Warning: Adult Material

Vote Early and Often

2007-07-30T00:37:00.001-04:00

Jacquetta Live at the Laugh Factory

2007-06-24T01:17:00.000-04:00

Tonight I played the Laugh Factory for the first time. If you have not been there, this former pre-Giuliani go-go club still looks like the real thing. The red, black and mirrored interior sports flashing lights and if you use your imagination you can imagine eight balls being snorted off ladies of the evening by wyaward business types- the way 42nd used to roll. The room was awesome and I got a willing audience member to capture my moment on the stage.
Somehow this shot reminds me that I need to get back to writing this blog. Maybe its the rainbow...

Jacquetta Live at New York Comedy Club

2007-05-28T01:14:00.000-04:00

Folks, ten minutes of gold! Some old bits and some new bits. WARNING: light profanity.

Tonight Live at New York Comedy Club

2007-05-24T14:05:00.000-04:00

Jacquetta Live!
New York Comedy Club
Thursday May 24, Friday May 25 & Sunday May 27 @ 8pm

Come see me put down my comedy anchor with top comics---
Laurie Kilmartin: Jimmy Kimmel Live, Tough Crowd w/ Colin Quinn
Marina Franklin: Comedy Central's "Chappelle's Show" & NBC's "Last Comic Standing"
Jacquetta Szathmari (that's me): NYC's "armed comedy princess"
Mary Dimino: Letterman, Conan & HBO's "Chris Rock Show"
Erica Watson: BET & Oxygen

Cover is $ 10 on Thursday & Sunday. Cover is $ 15 on FRIDAY.
All shows have a 2 drink minimum.
Reservations recommended. 212-696-5233

What I'm Up To

2007-05-22T21:21:00.000-04:00

In an email a fellow comic asked me what I was up to. I don't know if she meant it, but I told her.

What am I up to...

Well, this morning there was a mouse stuck in a glue trap that the exterminator had set up in the kitchen. Too bad those guys are not around when the devices finally work. I spent the better part of the morning unable to decide if the squeaking I heard was coming from a mouse or a newborn bird out the window. I was hoping to find out before my fiancé, G, left the house. The plan was to make him throw the sticky mess out. My dog Curtis, a veritable anti-bloodhound, was sniffing around the entire apartment to little effect. After each squeak-chirp-squeal he reacted with fearful whimpering and began sniffing in another direction. Further complicating the hunt was my eyesight. From a comfortable distance I was unable to distinguish a mouse laden glue trap from one containing a dust bunny. Having watched one too many Sci Fi originals (Mansquito anyone…), I really didn’t want to get my face too close to the trap. This would have involved me getting on to all fours and wedging myself between the stove and the cabinets. I imagined that in this position I would be the perfect target for the stream of angry and indignant mice waiting just behind the decoy mouse. I got down anyway and the glue trap lurched toward me. I recognized the mouse as the one we had been chasing for weeks.

+++++

I am lucky enough to have the month of May off and have spent the majority of my time writing my first feature length script. This has involved a fair amount of late nights, a lot of film viewing and very little human interaction; the combination of the three lead directly to an overactive imagination. When the hour became very late I began to hear crackling noises. At first I reasoned that it was the wall clock, the tv or even my own typing because whenever I stopped making noise or turned off all the electronics there was silence. I spent anxious moments creeping up on various objects in my living room but could find nothing. I dismissed the possibility of a mouse as I had not seen any in more than a year and there was no “mouse sign” anywhere in my spotless abode. Finally, one early morning I tracked down the noise to my desk area. I moved things around but no mouse scurried out and I was unaware that there was any space under the bookcase; I imagined it was flush to the floor. I took all of my screenwriting notes on the shelf. I became paranoid that the mouse was after my movie. Then I became paranoid that I was becoming paranoid and therefore losing it. I couldn’t write a thing past act two.

To delay beginning the third act of my screenplay I decided to clean my office area. When I moved the bookshelf away from the wall I found a significant stash of dog food and evidence of a mouse. I immediately moved a glue trap to the small space behind the bookshelf and stuck down a few pieces of dog food as bait. This failed. For the next two weeks the mouse became bolder, darting across the living room floor while we were on the couch, pausing in front of the bathroom door while I was brushing my teeth and casually hanging out in the hallway. He must have known that his days were few.

On my hands and knees, I stared the mouse in the snout. Even though I had wished him death for more than a fortnight, I could not suffer to throw a live animal down a trash chute. I also did not want to pick up the trap with my hands for fear of getting bitten by a mouse with nothing to lose. I took a broomstick handle and stuck it onto the trap. It stuck to it very well- almost too well- and then I dropped the trap and thus the sticky mouse into a bucket filled with water. I held the mouse-end of the trap under the water until I figured the mouse was dead. After checking to see if he had expired, I yelled anti-vermin epitaphs and chucked the whole thing down the trash chute. A glue pad is not in anyway a better mouse trap.

Oh, yeah and I have some shows coming uo. What are you to?
J

Nice Day for a Black Wedding

2007-04-15T16:45:00.000-04:00

According to the stacks of glossy mags I purchased just after accepting my boyfriend G’s proposal, planning a wedding is fun. Picking out the right font and wording for the stacks of papers that you have to send out is enjoyment. Discovering how deep into debt you will go for a party is a blast. Fighting with your husband to be, parents and future in-laws over catering and venues is pure pleasure. Having no one actually assist or even want to assist you in any way is bliss. Under the spell of theknot.com, I attended a wedding expo[1] at a leading Manhattan department store. G and I went for the free booze and favors and ended up giving our name, address and emails to every sales rep who pulled us a cold one. Wedding professionals are like funeral industry pros, they have one chance to put the emotional squeeze on you to get your money, and squeeze they do. They labor to convince you that something very simple needs to be very complicated in order to be truly special and that you should pay them for the complications. I arrived excited trying to cast off negative the negative association I had developed for weddings, but left feeling confused and frankly a little anti the whole thing. The power of the bridal myth and accompanying cult industry, while awesome and seemingly inescapable, are no match for my matrimonial memories.

Despite daily inundation by Disney and Mattel Barbie/princess fantasy propaganda, I never dreamed of my wedding day. I got clued in pretty early to the hoax that someday a prince would come. Perhaps it was the fact of living with a single mom whose prince had come in the form of a stable government job with benefits. Or maybe it was because I could sense the unhappiness and disappointment in the married couples around me. I thought about how those one time wannabe princesses had been duped. They may have been waiting for a prince to gallop up on a white steed and take them away from their life but all they got was a low wage earner who showed up in a beat up Charger knocked them up and then slept with their sister. I tried to imagine how quickly fantasy turned to nightmare when reality crept in. At relatives’ homes, I don’t remember ever being shown a wedding album or even having seen their wedding pictures on display. It was as if everyone had just unceremoniously shacked up due to boredom and low expectations or more likely an unplanned pregnancy. I can’t recall ever being pulled aside to hear about a wedding or to be asked about my big day still decades in the future.

During what would now be referred to as my Tween years, I attended plenty of weddings[2] with either my fat spinster cousin who I hate (I have to add the phrase for my sanity) or my mother. I guess I was their date. In large, I found the weddings to be poor cousins to the soap opera spectacle weddings and pictures of wedding that I had seen in national newspapers and other periodicals. The dresses were always a horrid princess style and seemed incredibly out of place in the mediocre churches in which the ceremonies were held. I could not fathom choosing a place because of emotional attachment instead aesthetics. The bridesmaids’ outfits seemed either a cruel joke or the bride’s calculated attempt to look even more beautiful if only by comparison. Lacking climate control and packed with people, the air in the church was always stifling. Bouquets and boutonnières wilted and guests sweated under the polyester blends in which they had dressed to impress.

After the ceremony the crowd rushed to the local fire department, the only place in town that black people used for large functions. I can only assume that the areas many private clubs and restaurant were either restricted[3] or too expensive. I always wanted to get there early for the swag. I observed from my mother that the wedding tchotchke is an important keepsake and I made the collection of napkins, matchbooks, ribbons, Jordan almond boxes and other imprinted paper products a serious purpose. I later observed from her that while every conceivable item was an important keepsake none were important enough to be kept safe from elemental decay. Every memento ended up like my boarding school diploma, school photos or christening dress; crinkled, yellowing with decay and losing the fight against rising damp in a dank hall closet. The color coordinated favors, waxed backed paper table cloths and faux flowers decorating the hall made it seem a bit more like a reception venue. These careful placed decorations obscured the trophies, historical prints and departmental photos that let you know you were in a historical museum of the volunteer fire brigade. Minus these distractions, one may have noticed that the faces in the group photos of the county’s bravest volunteers were the same faces of those who hid their true feelings about us behind white conical hats and had probably set as many blazes as they discriminatorily put out.

Meals were always an unremarkable variation on what a congregation would serve to a visiting church choir after a rousing performance: macaroni and cheese, greens, various mayonnaise based salads, some unhealthy form of chicken or sliced meat, mashed potatoes and a dizzying amount of soft sweet rolls. Alcohol was never served because of the location, an irony considering the makeup, constitution and ethnicity of the firefighters. I was sure that alcohol was served when one of their own had a reception there. The wedding receptions never
featured silverware, glass or ceramic plates and the use of Chinette would have been a welcome addition. Because the food was oily, I often had to double and triple up on the flimsy paper plates we were given and hope for the best. Napkins were of a correspondingly low quality and seemed to chase liquid spills and oily seepage away rather than absorb it.

Rarely was there a party after the meal, everyone just went to their respective homes or to work to dish the events to those who had not been in attendance, if they could find anyone in that category. I went home to compare the papers and favors I had collected with others in my collection. Then I either put them away in a drawer to take up space or displayed them on my shelf to collect dust. The more weddings I attended the more the events failed to leave an impression on me. As far as I was concerned I had gotten as close to the wedding experience as I imaged I would ever want to. But all that was before I was invited to be a junior bridesmaid in a wedding, which is an entirely different story.

[1] Expo is a synonym for battery soft selling

[2] I should mention that I never really knew the bride and groom. They were often cousins several times removed or simply members of the congregation at the church I was forced to attend. Weddings were a community event and I kept as close to myself as possible which explains my detachment.

[3] No blacks, no Jews and only well established Irish

I Heart Babs

2007-03-26T23:53:00.000-04:00

There is nothing like a Vegas impersonator to lift a gal's spirits. Neil Diamond was great too, but I couldn't fight past all the walkers to get to him....

2007-03-10T02:49:00.001-05:00

Let the Music Play

2007-03-06T23:59:00.000-05:00

I have been trying to win KTU Party Gras tickets for the last fortnight. And by trying to win I mean I have been imploring my samurai lawyer fiancé, Z, to listen to 103.5 and get the tickets for me. And by the last fortnight I mean since Sunday when I noticed it was that time of year again. He has great luck winning things on the air whereas I have the opposite of that luck. Since we met, back in ’04, he has consistently won tickets to every radio giveaway event I have wanted attend. His luck put me in the front rows of a second rate sumo tournament at the Garden and had me shakin’ it to some seriously old school freestyle at the Copa; a thing I hope to repeat this March 14^th. One of this year’s feature artists is a former New Kid on the Block- I won’t spoil the surprise but his initials are JK! What, what. And of course the place will be replete with freestyle legends. There is no way that I am going to miss the “sexiest” party of the year even if it is on a Wednesday. Say what you want about the B & T crowd. The striped shirt and Paris has burnt crowd may annoy you in the Meatpacking District or on 27^th street but they sure do love to dance and I love to dance with them and their gelled up ‘dos. So with any luck Z will be the 103^rd caller and I will fish out my Lucite heels, no name stretch jeans and $9.99 polyester top with matching bikini and ready myself for a night of disco sparkles and rock steady beats.

How dare you be happy without me!

2007-03-05T17:41:00.000-05:00

Not only do I date outside of what society insists is my race, I do so unapologetically. There is little more important to me than my independence and over the years I have developed the audacity to not care what others think of my personal life. Still there are those who feel that:

a) I care about their opinions on my romantic choices

b) They have the right to an opinion on the aforementioned choices

And far worse

c) They have the right to shout those opinions across the subway/park/cafeteria/street at me in a vain attempt to shame me or at least disturb my bliss.

I think we know who I am talking about- racist, angry marginalized-feeling black men. Few black women who date interracially have not been accosted by these guys. The tale is always a slight variation or mélange of the following scenarios.

Scenario One: A black woman is minding her own business in a public place and is approached by a black man she finds undesirable for whatever reasons. She refuses to respond to his advances, which can range from a polite rap to crude animal noises, prompting him to get ugly and accuse her of looking down on him because he is black. This is usually followed by accusations of her being "uppity" (how dare a sister be confident and selective) or disorganized crass verbal abuse with a bit of righteous indignation. Clearly this man is being rejected on the basis of his skin color and not because the woman is simply not into him. Apparently, she should be so flattered that a strange black man (supposedly a scarce commodity, are they printing that schlock themselves) has approached her that she should immediately submit herself to him, hand over her digits and felate him on the spot no questions asked. Duh!

As an aside, if these guys suspect rejection why do they bother to approach and what makes it clear to them that a woman has not limited her options to 20% of 12% of the population. Personally, I wear a pin that says “no brothers” (joking), but I mean for the rest of us.

Scenario Two: A black woman, accompanied by her non-black man, looks a little too happy and secure in the relationship. This provokes the ire of a black male passerby who just can’t stand it and proceeds to accuse her of being “uppity”, an “Uncle Tom” etc. (please refer to the tirade summarized in Scenario One) as if her man is not there. In this case the angry man’s skin color works for him as the non-black companion usually does not want to get into a fracas that the press will somehow ultimately paint as a hate crime with the brother as the victim. Also, the embarrassed sister usually wants the incident to be over and dissuades her man from getting into the confrontation which is after all “not about him”. What a shame for everyone! The woman is mortified, the brother gets what he wants without sustaining a much deserved ass kicking and the other guy is not even allowed to defend the honor of the relationship. Well, we have come a long way.

Usually no one who witnesses any of these events comes to or is allowed to come to the aid of the black woman. This begs many questions. Why is this behavior acceptable? Are we supposed to accept that black men are so damaged by society that they granted carte blanche to be racist misogynists (that’s right, I said it again)? Are black women the last viable target for their misplaced anger and if so how can we change this? Of course, there is always ass kicking which i think they might respond to, but this unlikely to take hold on a grand scale. Although I wonder how these dudes would react if someone approached them with a tirade of racial hatred.

I have no answers but I would love to put together a compendium aka blog of stories of black women in interracial relationships who have been harassed in the manners outlined above. I love it when people share their stories. It helps us keep things in perspective and it transfers the burden from one and spreads it among many which makes it easier to bear.

I have had many conversations with women in which we try to understand the motivation behind those who harass us. We go back and forth from anger to confusion to attempts at understanding but we will never really know. Enough, lets focus on someone we have control over – ourselves- and lets get those stories out there!

By the way, haters need not respond. Any intelligent person knows that I am only talking about a small selection of the black male demographic and aside from my father and a guy I dated in junior high I don’t hate black men any more than I hate people in general. And, I already said I don’t care a wit about your opinions. I wasn’t joking. Want to spread hate? Make your own reactionary site and send me the URL, I always need more material for my stand up.

I haven’t come up with a name yet. I am taking suggestions.

2007-03-05T14:05:00.000-05:00

Oh yes, it is on, and I have a lot to say about it. Kick your weekend off by hearing me spew forth Szathmarian pearls of wisdom.

JACQUETTA LIVE!

FRIDAY MARCH 9TH, 7PM (AFTER WORK SHOW FOR ALL YOU SUITS....)
LAUGH LOUNGE COMEDY CLUB
(F train to Delancey)
$12 COVER + 2 DRINK MIN.
CALL 212-614-2500 for reservations, you will need them...

Send me an email to let me know you are coming and I'll prepare a lil' something something for y'all.

Celebrity Containment

2007-02-28T11:08:00.000-05:00

Last night, during a melatonin induced slumber, I dreamt of a US media outlet operating under a no-celeb news policy. An early morning check of my email inbox revealed that my dream has a small chance of coming true. According to Mediabistro.com, the AP will no longer run stories on Paris Hilton unless they are in someway connected to actual salient news- in short, no Paris. I followed the link to the parent article and was delighted to find that this was true. Finally after having to endure her foolish antics for what seems like eons the informed news reader can enjoy publications that are Paris-free. One can only hope that this trend will catch on and other outlets will relegate celebrity photos, gossip and reportage to the celebrity rags, tabloids and back pages where they belong.

I try to avoid frivolous news items but in a society in which image is rapidly replacing substance it is hard to keep news of Britney, Paris and Anna out of my head. On the subway I overhear discussions, based on news reports, about the tragic plights of starlets, singer/video porn stars and socialites. Web portals blast you with star stories as you try to log on. TV news always manages to sneak in a celeb quickie. News stand covers are littered with their manufactured images and the images of those lesser beings who strive to emulate them in their notoriety. I find it upsetting that I have to even consider their existences in spite of the fact that I go out of my way to avoid knowledge of them.

My upset turns to the underpinnings of paranoia as I try to imagine those who benefit from this sad situation. Certainly, the magazine industry and journalists (there should be another name for celeb reporters as “journalist” has too much of an air of respectability) fare well. The writers save time on editing, fact checking, gathering real sources because there is no need for any of that with the tripe they produce. The magazines have and endless supply of fodder. Celebs, being human, are always doing something and everything they do is interesting even getting a coffee, doubly so if it will convince us to buy that same coffee. For the larger entertainment industry it is all free publicity, even bad PR is good PR. Of course some of it is just indulgence of morbid public curiosity, which says much about or society. But how much exposure do we need? How much real news are we missing out on while we read daily reports of Anna’s decomposing body or Britney’s shaved head?

I can’t help but think there is some evil intent behind it all. I am not good at cooking up conspiracy theories and I can’t think of any one group evil enough to pin it on. I’ll just do what I always do- blame in on Cheney, a man villainous enough to shoulder the blame for all that is soulless and wrong.

Anyway, in my dream I saw myself at a local magazine store standing in front of an expansive rack of periodicals. There was not a celebrity in sight. The publications were full of news and the people around me were engrossed in intelligent discourse about what they had read and what they were going to do about it. Publishers, politicians, pundits, PR flack, admen and the like were fretting around the periphery fearing for their livelihoods and then I lost my digital camera, the one that I got for Xmas two years ago. Yeah, its non sequitor. It was a dream.

Pancake Day

2007-02-21T11:31:00.000-05:00

Ahh, it is Ash Wednesday again. This year I am prepared because I happened to notice it on my calendar. So, I won’t have that awkward encounter when I see someone with a disconcerting black smudge on their forehead (Yes, yes we see… you are both faithful and pious. Thank you). When I was a child living in rural Maryland we celebrated the Lenten season religiously- we kicked it off with Pancake Day.

While our New Orleans counterparts were getting lining up for a night a debauchery with a parade of themed floats, monstrous puppets, drag queens and showgirls, the denizens of Coleman’s Corner were lined up in the living room of my great aunt waiting for her to ladle some pancake batter into various containers. Apparently when she was younger, and her batter less popular, she used to actually fry up pancakes for anyone who came by. They would hang out in her kitchen, summer kitchen and dining room and literally chat and chew. While the Big Easy was drinking itself into a stupor with the aid of college students, carnival tourists and other undesirables I was eating combinations of pancakes, butter, molasses, homemade jellies and syrup. As a precursor to Lent we all gorged ourselves to prepare for the next 40 “lean” days.

I loved Pancake Day because I loved pancakes and was still too young to make a decent flapjack on my own. My mother was no Julia Childs. I had a very faint idea that our Pancake Day celebration was linked to Lent, the forty days when Christians are supposed to forgo serious temptations but usually just end up swearing off consumables like, alcohol, soda, chocolate, meat and cigarettes. I never gave up anything but was always on guard to see if anyone else had let their Lenten promise lapse. Always the cynic.

The summer I turned 13, after years of pestering my mother, we finally moved to a larger town. After that, there was no more pancake day for me. My new school was Catholic and religious holiday not involving their Virgin was some how a solemn occasion. Class was constantly interrupted by the praise of the lamentations of one saint or another, one tragedy or another, or one sacrifice of another. These events were always accompanied by gruesome imagery of torture and narrated by an angry butch nun telling us that we would probably all go to hell anyway. I sat in the Ash Wednesday assembly watching each of my Catholic classmates wince as Father Bad Acne branded each of them with a grimy thumbprint. I wondered if back in Coleman’s Corner pancake batter was still being served and I thought about how I could convince my mom to take me the Denny’s that evening for pancakes for dinner.

Second Life's a Charm

2007-02-07T00:27:00.000-05:00

I pride myself on having few addictions. I started in smoking in Catholic school grade and smoked for non-religiously ten years switching brands according to fashion and marketing. I began with the obscure, Yves St Laurent ultra lights, and progressed to a more predictable pack-a-day habit of Newports in various permutations. I smoked only when I had extra money and in social situations. I rarely smoked alone and frequently put out half smoked “chokes” if I lost the feeling. When I moved to Europe I started rolling my own and sampled shag cut tobaccos from all over the globe. I puffed on the odd Cuban, but only because it was considered contraband back home. When I returned from abroad and found that the price of cigarettes had skyrocketed from $2 to $7 a pack, I promptly went cold turkey out of a strong fiduciary responsibility to my future self. I haven’t smoke reliably since the millennium. My affair with smoking is the closest thing I think I might have had to an addiction and it was easily snuffed out.

Addictions take dedication and follow through, two qualities I struggle to foster even within activities that enrich my life. I wish I could get hooked on exercise or writing daily or even taking vitamins. Nothing becomes automatic for me not matter how many times I do it. I can never follow a schedule for long or develop habits or even fall into a rut. Sameness bores, I lose focus and lapse into inactivity as a result have survived many fads untouched by their accompanying mania. My disdain for fads was always accompanied by a smug sense that perhaps I was above the fad, too unique, too much of an individual to jump on the bandwagons. I fancied myself a truly free thinker, not one of the masses but not above the masses either just slightly to the left of the masses probably drinking a coffee and reading a news paper about the masses. I certainly never thought I would be reading an article about a mass I was about to get into.

I made it through childhood and adolescence without getting into video games. My first computer came in the early eighties replete with a big 10 inch monitor and a tape recorder to play programs, which then came on cassette tapes. A year or two later I upgraded to an Apple with a bigger monitor, disk drive and truly floppy disks. I was then presented with my first video game. While my neighbors delighted themselves with Pole Position I was working on blue and white grid paper mapping out the terrain in a “choose-your-own-adventure” words only computer role play. Hours of fun. After a month or so I swore of tech amusement and went back to reading, at least the classics had an illustration every chapter or so.

Arcades were not my thing which was good because my town’s only arcade was in the Laundromat a car ride away. Any kid who wanted to play Space Aliens had to consent to accompany their mother to the laundromat and risked having to do actual laundry in order to get a few lousy quarters. I didn’t mind doing the laundry but I didn’t like putting money into a machine just to see the words - Player 1 is over- after 10 seconds. I could not imagine skipping school with scammed or stolen money to shove it into noisy electric boxes. Even after technology had improved video gaming held no attraction for me. I never wanted to know what it felt like to be behind the wheel of a fast car or space ship. I didn’t care about trouncing and finishing my opponent in mortal combat or saving the planet from Teutonic alien mutants. Surprisingly, I was not even interested in the civilization games that allow you to play a god. All of these games lacked the one thing that I might have been looking for, anonymous human interaction.

Enter Second Life. A few weeks before the holiday I caught a piece in the Wall Street Journal about Second Life, a virtual reality universe that businesses with international offices have been using to have meetings. Second Life, or SL, is not only for corporate use it is also a social site for the masses. SL members create a customized avatar and use it to interact with other avatars and to navigate the incredible computer animated landscape. It is hard to explain. Check out Second Life for yourself.

Caution: SL it is addictive, especially for the underemployed, agoraphobics and those who wish they had a wilder side.

My Big Fat Black Comedy

2007-02-05T17:04:00.000-05:00

Now I think we all agree that there is nothing funnier that a parody of a black woman especially if she is overweight, over 21, darker than a café au lait and has the audacity to have self confidence and exhibit sexuality in modern America. I am chuckling just thinking about Eddie Murphy’ new film “Norbit”. The onslaught of subway advertising has left the signature image of the film- a large black woman in a negligee happily squashing the movies anti-hero - etched in my brain. Finally, the public can see how we, black women, are literally keeping “our” men down. I am going to go way out on a creative limb and guess what this film is about and I hope your God that I am wrong. The woman on the poster has probably locked Norbit into a relationship that he is afraid to get out of. She keeps his balls in a jar in the kitchen next to a jar of used frying grease and recipes for fried chicken, macaroni and cheese and biscuits. Without his man orbs he is not free to pursue the many light skinned flaxen haired or even (a progressive liberal gasp) a white woman who surround him. Meanwhile we are subjected to full body shots of the fat wench who is his keeper. Hilarity abounds when fun is poked at an easy target from a voiceless and inconsequential demographic. It’s even better when the poker is from the supposed companion demographic. I love Hollywood and the way that only the crème de la crème of black culture gets its due. I also love how it strips me of my entertainment idols.

In fifth grade I did a report on Eddie Murphy. In 1985 it was not easy to find information on him in my local small town library but I managed to pull enough together to hand write a decent report. I was inspired by his then brief life story and was blown away by his talent as a performer on SNL. I begged my mom to take me to see Beverly Hills cop even though it was rated R for violence. I loved it. I used the signature theme music in my first and last ever gymnastics routine for gym class. Eddie was totally awesome! I imagined that if I became a comedian I would definitely try to transition from joking around on stage to starring in black white buddy cop pics with electronic soundtracks. It was so clear- The Beverly Hills Cop franchise, the 48 Hours franchise. Go Eddie, go! Delirious, Raw, both which seemed good at the time. Then I guess Disney bought him. Oh well, another cautionary tale.

The images of black women in film are depressing and often mean spirited. In many cases we have even been replaced by other women of color. Okay, fine, perhaps in the case of video “hoes”, this is better. Maybe not. But maybe there is something I can do, I will make my own revenge comedy. I know that this ribald comedy would never get produced even though it demeans everyone for a few cheap laughs and cleaves to and reinforces caustic stereotypes because the woman is the victor. Read on…

Premise

A black woman of means is being constantly courted by brothers of little means. Apparently she thinks that because it is 2007 and she is attractive, bright and ambitious she thinks she can be happy and date whomever she likes. The main brother, her man, is of little means and is a heinous stereotype of a black man- hyper-conceited, swaggering, on the DL, sees conspiracies against the black man everywhere, wears tight athletic clothing, has children he doesn’t take care of and is antifeminist (I will base him on my father). He holds her back in every way possible and embarrasses her daily with his lack of social graces. He is played by the lead black female in drag as no self respecting man would ever debase himself or his ilk in this way. It will also add the hilarity of the piece and save money. This man is desperate to keep this woman but he just can’t measure up and his tactics are both embarrassing and lame. In the end she deals him a scathing verbal blow decimating his character and in the end marries her non-black coworker and lives happily ever after. He on the other hand ends up with nothing, but we don’t care because he is the villain after all.

No? Not funny? Why not? Maybe the happily ever after part is too unbelievable. What if I add a scene where they do the “dozens” and someone whips off the main female’s weave? Still no? What if we make the main character the man and the villain the woman? Now that’s gold. I have an idea who can star in it.

A Blood Diamond is Forever

2007-01-17T13:12:00.000-05:00

We have entered into a new era. Diamonds can now be produced in a lab. This is great news for everyone except De Beers, creators of the “A diamond is forever.” campaign, controllers of the world diamond monopoly, war profiteers and supporters of Apartheid. As one of the most hated companies on earth there is little that they can say in response to great scientific miracle except “oh snap”, with a peculiar Dutch/African accent.

I have never been a fan a diamonds. To me they are just shiny rocks for which Africa has long been held hostage and no slick advertising can change that. The industry tries to portray diamonds as a rare commodity albeit one that you can find in any department store in Anytown, America. I think you can even score this precious stone at such uncommon and prestigious retailers as Wal-Mart and Costco. They hold no nostalgia for me and if I ever were to receive one as a gift you can be certain that I would sell it for cash and immediately use that cash to put a dent in my student loans.

Still De Beers, ignoring the history of the collapse of the natural pearl market under the pressure from cultured pearls, insists that Madison Avenue will be able to convince people that what is special about a De Beers “natural” diamond is that it took nature millions of years to make it and not simply that it is shiny, overpriced and can be used to finance wars. Good luck on that.

I, for one, would consider buying a manufactured diamonds because I, already clothed in sweatshop produced clothing, don’t need to own anymore non-essential items that I feel guilty about. I hope (with great doubt) that celebrities, especially black ones dripping in ridiculous ice, will feel the same way and promote the new diamonds produced by labs like Gemesis and Apollo Diamonds as a political statement. Although given the history of those tacky tastemakers who will promote anything from Nascar to drug violence, I suspect that De Beers has already gotten to them. So, instead we can expect them to spew well crafted marketing arguments attempting to convince us that not buying diamonds from Africa is somehow wrong, somehow unAfrican. I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard for them to bribe, I mean pay for endorsements from people as sophisticated as the average entertainer. They are no fools and those rocks are mighty shiny!

Not Ripe for Conversion

2007-01-16T11:56:00.000-05:00

For someone who was just woken out of a great dream involving drama, intrigue and several integral characters from the HBO series Rome (“I’m Titus Pullo right!”) I think I reacted remarkably calm towards the proselytizers at my door. I thought that it was one of my neighbors and that it was some kind of emergency as they usually, out of courtesy, call before coming down. When I looked out the peephole, I was surprised to see an approaching elderly black couple standing opposite the door with an open Bible in their hand.

Maybe someone in their congregation had played a trick on them. The demographics of Riverdale: a predominately Jewish, predominately upper class, predominately bedroom community of people who live on the outskirts of the city because of the privacy it affords is not a promising place for religious conversion. Like many buildings in my neighborhood, ours is a co-op and we do not take kindly to people entering the building without their own keys, packages for delivery or Chinese food. In other words we tend to think of the entire building, the hallways, foyer, back and side yards and garage area as our private property, because it is, because we pay for it to be a buffer to the outside world. Well this morning the outside world somehow got buzzed in and now I will never know what happened during my dreamtime tenure as the first black female general of the 13th legion of Caesar’s land army.

As I fastened my robe I thought- just find out what they want. We do live below a couple who are both ministers and these people could be looking for them, no need to be rude, it is almost noon I should get up anyway… No, I was wrong they just wanted to discuss the Bible with me. I asked them if the Good Book mentioned anything about trespassing which I followed up with a threat to sic our non existent security force on them. As they milled about in the hallway trying to knock on one last door I reminded them of my threats and they shuffled out. I quickly dressed and went downstairs to speak to the Super about these religious interlopers. Of course he was in the boiler room, but a maintenance guy assured me that he had seen the Bible pushers leave the building by the side door. Using many expletives I let him in on my thoughts on the matter.

My Grandmother was a Jehovah’s Witness ‘til the end so I have a small soft spot for spiritual salespersons. Her conversion rate was low and she failed to convert even one of her seven children or any of her grandchildren to the religion she adopted after her second marriage failed and she became ill. Most of us run the spiritual gamut from rabid athiest to agnostic to “I’ll go to church if someone makes me.” I think that their jobs as Witnesses are very tough especially in an era in which people are increasingly dismissive of religion. It certainly can’t be fun walking around in all sorts of weather having doors slammed in your face and threats hurled at you while you are trying to save people from your concept of eternal damnation. However my sympathies end when my quiet enjoyment of my home is affected by their diligence and I am sure that Mrs. Rosenbaum (not her real name) on the second floor didn’t appreciate it either. Short of putting up a sign in the lobby next to the one about menus I think that there is little we can do about this particular religious sales force.

Why can’t someone sneak into the building in an attempt to offer me something I really want at 11:30 am like a bagel and a cup of coffee light and sweet with Sweet and Low or information on a good designer sample sale or even a coupon for a free wax with full car wash anything really except eternal salvation from people that I am not even sure are right. Maybe I should put one of those Darwin fish on my door and personalize it by putting and NRA sticker on one its evolving flipper feet. I think that would send a clearer message.

What's My Name

2007-01-14T19:58:00.000-05:00

After much research I have finally discovered the meaning of my name. It is a Romance version of a Latin name meaning "the supplanter" or "the usurper".

I can work with that.
This changes all my New Year's resolutions. I have much to attend to.

Yours truly,

Jacquetta the Supplanter

PS I apologize to those of your who thought my name was made up. HA. Watch your back.

No Oniomania

2006-12-04T09:19:00.000-05:00

For humbugs and those living outside of Judeo-Christian faiths, the greatest joy of the holiday season is the prevalence of the most wonderful deals of the year. Swept into stores by persuasive holiday sounds, smells and advertising pressure would be shoppers are assaulted by announcements that everything in the store, including sale items, are on sale. The holiday season is a tricky time for penny pinching purchasers and the shameful shoppers. As a member of both clubs, I have retained the guilt of every bargain purchase I have ever made. I can count on both hands purchases costing more than $100 including taxes and can recall the anguish involved in each procurement. It took months to replace a TV because I couldn’t bear to part with the money, even on installment. The purchase of winter boots took two full seasons. Preparation began during summer vacation in Las Vegas, when I dragged myself away from the penny slots long enough to hit the malls. I showed my fiancé dozens of boots and scrutinized each one. Back in New York, I subjected him discount shoe websites and forced him to offer commentary. When finally I decided to buy a pair, I imagined it to be an impulse, became concerned and called him in court to have him talk me through the purchase. When did my frugality turn into chronic reverse oniomania?

Oniomania is, at least in North America, a serious medical condition which compels sufferers to shop in an attempt to alleviate emotional distress. The very thought of shopping of is distressing to me. I envy these people. I imagine easy it must be for them to get a day’s shopping done while I am driving around the parking lot looking for a meter with time on it. They literally have it all and during the holiday seasons they can get it all cheaper.

The act of shopping activates a combination of my greatest phobias. Decidophobia, fear of making decisions, caused me to freeze through and entire north eastern winter because I was too indecisive to get the proper outerwear. I spent plenty of in malls and boutiques interviewing each piece of clothing as if it were going to be my life partner only to walk out empty handed and cold. I was convinced by rampant, atelophobia- fear of imperfection, that the moment I bought the coat something would be wrong with it. The down would cease to be fluffy and warm or the waterproof outershell would immediately become porous like a sponge. At winter continued I would be even cold and wet minus the money I had foolishly spent on defective goods. This conjures up my peniaphobia, fear of poverty.

Peniaphobia convinces me that my next purchase will break the bank. From my cardboard box on the edge of town I will realize that that money spent on the overpriced substandard winter coat in 2006 is what put me on skid row. I will have no one to blame but my expensive tastes and poor decisions. The fact that I think I will be living in a cardboard box because of a single clothing purchase demonstrates an unwieldy deep seated poinephobia, fear of punishment. My mother impressed upon me that the consequences of every punishable action were a greater punishment than what she could ever mete out. Every wrong turn was followed by an interminable waiting game that made losing privileges, getting beaten and being grounded seem like paradise. I neither knew when punishment would come nor what it was linked to. Did I fall off my horse during the lesson because I had made fun of Michelle Pekdilides’ name or was it because I grabbed more than one body of Christ wafer at communion. I would never know but it is certain the retribution for careless shopping would be great.

While shopping I sometimes develop severe ochlophobia, fear of crowds, or as prefer to call them mobs. People, and by people I mean women, in discount department stores can become rabid. They become possessed by the idea that an article of clothing or accessory is unique, although I doubt it possible or financially viable for an overseas sweatshop to produce just one of any item. I have seen tug of wars break out at sample sales. I have seen snatch and grab moves in the racks at Century 21. I have witnessed dignified women break into a run over a Hermes scarf at a deep discount. Witnessing such antisocial activity brings on latent vestophobia, fear of clothing, and often chases me out of a store before I can get to the clearance racks. All of this is horribly amplified by the holiday season. From Black Friday to the day after New Year’s I am both drawn to major shopping arenas by the prospect of finding a great deal and repulsed from them by my respective phobias. The shopping trips are usually aborted midday and I end up in a bar and then back home to do a little tipsy discount shopping online. Happy holidays indeed.

Ad Parade

2006-11-27T10:20:00.000-05:00

I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade out of morbid curiosity. I didn’t want to miss seeing a rabid Pokemon Pikachu break free from the ropes of oppression and crush unsuspecting onlookers. I have never enjoyed parades, they have always seemed militaristic to me. I am frightened by masses of people simultaneously enacting choreographed precision movements. The Rockettes give me the creeps. I imagine that they are drugged or at least hypnotized and once the music stops they will open up on the placated crowd with semi automatic UN issue weaponry smuggled in from the East.

At this year’s parade the constant barrage of corporate sponsorship was more frightening than the robotic cheerleading and the marching Tuba band. Each float seemed to be accompanied with either a lip-synching corporate shill or corporate shill commentary. I only had the tube on for about 15 minutes and I think I was implored to buy or at least think about a dozen different brands before I turned the damn thing off.

Sarah McLachlan, who I stopped listening to once I got over teenage angst, was paying the bills by warbling the sad theme song from a remake of Charlotte’s Web. When did Hollywood start remaking cartoons? Barry Manilow was lip synching something formulaic and iconic on a float that was celebrating so many things that I couldn’t even figure it out. I guess the theme of that one was “flamboyance”. A healthy and heavily taxpayer subsidized Mr. Potato, sponsored by the spud council head told us all to consume more carbs than necessary while on the sidelines parade hosts made thinly veiled pitches for sponsors.

-Wow! Here comes Snoopy a Macy’s Parade favorite.

-I don’t see him anywhere.

-You might not be able to see him yet but I know he’s coming because he texted me on his new Razor phone available at Wal-mart at the low, low price of $129, plan included.

-That’s amazing!

-Here comes Ecko’s float titled Expedition to Mount Ecko.

-Did you know that Rhino’s might be an endangered species?

-Yeah they are pretty hard to find. But not as hard to find as am LG plasma TV.

-Better run out and get one now before they are all gone.

I am going to run out and get a subscription to Adbusters, use CM skip on the DVR as much as I can and try recover.

So Sorry

2006-11-21T23:27:00.000-05:00

http://us.video.aol.com/video.index.adp?mode=1&pmmsid=1772645
I was sent this link of both “Kramer’s” tirade and his apology.

Well that was the worst apology I have ever seen. It was as bad as the apology my fourth grade teacher made me give after I told Jenny “Look it isn’t personal, I just don’t like you.” And it was just as disingenuous. I didn’t like Jenny and I knew it was wrong but when pressed- and she did press the question that morning on the jungle gym- I came out with the truth. When she tattled I had to come up with something or risk exposure to my peers- Mrs. Dorsey’s home room class. I feared that with this proof people could confirm that I was a bad person and my elementary school career would be ruined. I couldn’t have that, I was a great student, I was in the glee club, I had perfect afro-puffs. So I lied. I wrung my hands, grimaced and made the appearance of an apology. I hoped that the sordid details of the incident would not get back to my mother. It worked. I skated by and everything was fine until the guilt of the insult set in. My reasons for not liking her were cursory. She was new to town, had weird grey colored eyes and dressed like an extra on Little House and the Prairie. She probably had a “funny” accent which in my town meant she spoke at a normal speed and didn’t add guttural Rs to every syllable. I don’t think she made a single friend and by the end of the semester she was gone from the school and from memory. Her parent’s company had probably moved them on to another piss ant rural town. Lucky Jenny.

Maybe it is too harsh to say that the Kramer apology was disingenuous. I do believe that he was truly sorry about dropping N bombs- out loud, on camera and in from of actual Ns. That is as much as I can give him. He probably made a lot of white liberals and liberal media types very uncomfortable especially with that “50 years ago… fork up the ass” comment. Nobody likes a Jim Crow reference as a punchline, no matter how truthful or well constructed. We, black folk, are unfortunately used to hearing people “accidentally” call us Ns. Whenever I hear it I try to remind the speaker that they should always check the room first and then, unless they are at one of their Klan rallies or a Bush cabinet meeting, they should only whisper the forbidden word the same way people whisper the word “black”. You never know when one of us sneaky Sambos is lurking around trying to entrap a man. The last thing you want is black people finding out that you hate them, its passé. How about instead of speaking racism each practicing racist could wear a pin showing their true colors. The pin should be recognizable, how about picture of a watermelon slice with a giant X over it or just a swastika. I like to know who I am dealing with. There is nothing more embarrassing than being nice to a person and even admiring them only to find out that they consider you to be a mere 3/5^th of a person. I can ruin one’s day, to say the least.

But really, is any of this worth all the media attention it is getting? What he did was not illegal, just offensive and foolhardy. After all what will happen to Kramer? Nothing. Maybe he won’t be able to do stand up again, but it looked like it was not going so well anyway. Perhaps he won’t get cast in another post-Seinfeld TV show that gets cancelled before anyone even hears of it. He’ll just to live in shame with his millions and wait for America’s short attention span to purge his outburst from its collective memory. In the meantime he can look forward to suspecting that there is urine in his soup, waiting hours for the valet and generally avoiding the public.

Charity Shops

2006-11-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

Dear readers,

What a time this has been. I have been fighting the technological powers that be since I announced that I was back on the blog scene. Apparently, some of them must have heard this, took exception to it and then set their respective viruses upon me.

Now, I am an avid reader of the Wall Street Journal. I enjoy the literary style and the honesty of view point. The paper is conservative and makes no bones about it and I like to know what the enemy is thinking. However, even though I realize that the paper is represents a certain homogenous constituency with a very narrow point of view colored by a powerful lust for money and an almost Dickensian villain-like selfishness there are times when sections of the writing goes entirely too far to the right. One piece in particular, “Shopping for the Poor” in the Review an Outlook section, went so far to the right that it actually went past conservative hailed a cab and directed it past “compassionate” conservatism and neo-conservatism.

I try to skip over articles that are not reports or reviews but I was attracted to “Shopping” because it mentioned Project RED. Due to technical difficulties, I was late to the party in verbally assaulting Bono’s newest campaign to fight AIDS in Africa. I have my own ideas about the effectiveness of high profile charities and, when I can, I support organizations that I feel actually serve their mission. When I give I ask for nothing in return. In fact I would like those to whom I give to stop wasting money on endless slick mailings on non-recyclable clay paper, address labels, galas, magnets, CDs, mugs or any other thank you gift. I am not donating money to indirectly support the firms that make any of these items. The greatest thanks a charity can give me is to carry out the work which I support. They can list my name or publish progress reports and appeals via email or on a website. Better yet, put all that info in a blog. Blogs are free.

I loathe the type of fundraiser whereby a portion of the proceeds goes towards saving/helping the –fill in the- nationality, malady or social ill. How about simply the proceeds- all of them- go towards the goal.

Enter project RED.

According the article, Project RED “recruits companies- Apple and Armani- among others- to sell specially branded RED versions of their products. Consumers are told that a portion of the proceeds will be used to fight AIDS in Africa.” Selfless. Since one of the companies involved is the Gap, sweatshop sponsor and environmental polluter the “developing” world over, it seems that the profit of one evil will assist in the combat another while reaping a nice profit and an equally nice write off for corporate participants. What more could a company ask for? Even better, they can get a slew of celebrities- I hope some of the same ones who are claiming that they are African too - to shill for their product, I mean their charity. All I have to do is follow Beyonce’s instructions to support AIDS eradication and buy a t-shirt or a Motorola phone, or a pair of Converse. The idea that conspicuous consumption of luxury goods- not one of the sponsors manufacturers needs rather than wants- can be an act of charity highlights so many issues in our societal mindset that a liberals arts student could waste, I mean, devote a whole independent study to it. I think that it is tragic, and I have to agree with Toronto Star’s Jennifer Wells opinion that “They just don't need to sell us stuff in order to do good. They can behave like the rest of us: cut a cheque. And make it a big one.”

But cutting a check, Ms. Wells, does not involve a media blitz with celebrity appearances and tons and tons of feel good PR. On the website http://www.joinred.com/, the words “Africa” and “AIDS” are hard to find. After all, who wants to think about the dark diseased continent while shopping for Emporio Armani goods? Sign up and they will send you product updates on what to buy, I mean, on how to fight AIDS. You get the idea. Maybe I am too cynical or perhaps as the author of “Shopping” asserts, I am of the elitist “mindset, which assumes that the only good charity is the kind that requires sacrifice”. I thought charity was about sacrifice and altruism, you know, not asking for anything in return save a warm fuzzy feeling. I guess I am old fashioned. The next time I go out and give I am going to make damn sure that I, and faceless corporate entities, get something in return. Why should the poor, the undernourished, the disease stricken, the homeless, refugees and orphans be the only ones to benefit from my largesse. Don’t I deserve something too? I should at least get an Ipod.

The Nightmare is Over

2006-11-08T15:37:00.000-05:00

Finally, I got my computer back from HP re-refurbished. So, I am back on the menu.

It's A Jungle in There

2006-10-17T12:51:00.000-04:00

Even my dreams are incomplete. When I am ill, as I am now, my dreams become a montage of situations past filled with metaphor and cliché. Last night I dreamt again of my brief tenure at the Board of Ed.

In full khaki dress I entered into a safari run amok. The gate had been left open and but few of the inhabitants, having been there their entire lives, had bothered to escape. The grounds were in poor shape and the groundskeepers were visibly drunk, in fact they were stinking and proud of it. They swaggered around the yards peeking in on the various activities taking place and shaking their heads in derision. As I walked deeper into the labyrinth of habitats I came upon what looked like the interior of a locker room that had been decorated to look like a part of the lion king set. Faux African motifs abounded among modern items that were covered in sheaths of spray painted straw. There was great confusion owing to the fact that no had bothered to designate male and female quarters. As in real life, I had a bladder the size of a thimble and needed to use a bath room. I also wanted to change my clothes which had become filthy and caked with mud during my journey.

In the chaos of the “locker room” all kinds of activities where in progress. There was a rudimentary marketplace, children were playing traditional games like hopscotch and double Dutch, arguments blossomed into minor skirmishes and settled back into arguments and some assorted persons where just hanging around doing nothing. To add to the dream like quality, all this happened in complete silence. Finally I was able to find what looked like the bathroom but was actually the entrance to a private hot tub room that was being prepared for some unknown elites. The black an white shiny tiled surfaces were blinding. A few attendants were testing the water and adding sanitizing chemicals while others brought in trays of champagne and canapés. Terrycloth robed figure stood waiting in the background. I was sickened by so much opulence next to relative squalor and stormed back out into the open plains.

In the distance I could see the entrance to the safari and could here the gate swinging open and shut. I began to make a beeline for the ranger’s hut near the gates when a very hungry lion caught my eye. At first I was started and then as it slowly grew closer I could make out that the lion had been shaved and was very thin. His attempts to stalk me, in this sorry condition, were nonthreatening. Still, I was not about to be caught off guard by any type of ruse concocted by a starving beast with nothing to lose, so I took to higher ground where I was confronted by a snarling leopard in great condition.

I would have to make a decision about who would eat me, lion or leopard. The lion was so sad and surely deserved a meal even though it may be his last. The leopard on the other hand, the stronger of the two, also deserved to eat and perhaps his meal would be a better investment in the future of big cats. I could choose not to make a decision and just run for and let nature decide, which would have been the same as choosing the leopard. I stood there in the grass for a long time, so long that both parties lost interest, and then I woke up. Some job experiences never leave you.

Sit Down

2006-10-16T10:27:00.000-04:00

1010 wins is a great news source if you live in Manhattan cave and only come out of it to get in your car and get stuck on the turnpike. During the ten minutes of news, traffic reports and weather 1010 somehow manages to report, or read reports, on current news. In the 10 seconds devoted to government, I found out about a UN event that had escaped my attention even though I read at least four daily papers in addition to getting news online. Apparently, and the report was quick so I may be mocking the wrong thing but no matter, the good unelected free spending delegates at the UN have finally come up with a way to get at world poverty.

Now, simple me, I would have suggest paying people but this is not as fun or engaging as the many other ways NGO poverty organizations deal with the issue. Usually poverty orgs throw themselves into organizing an orgy of galas, parties, banquets and conferences including galas, parties and banquets where they sup on donated gourmet food from whomever wants a tax write off that fiscal quarter. After the fete, all the crumbs, if there are any (in my experience the average poverty advocate has eradicated poverty in her personal life so vigorously that the next big issue to be tackled is obesity) are distributed to homeless people lucky enough to live near Lincoln Center. The money, raised in distributed past the elusive poor, goes right on to other poverty orgs who distribute it further down the chain to smaller orgs who use it to buy stamps and stationary to send you appeals for money.

No doubt, the folly and criticism of having a party to celebrate, I mean stamp out, social ills prompted the UN to take on a new approach to rubbing out poverty by breaking the world record for the most people standing at once. Brilliant! I can hear bread being made and dough getting distributed just at the mention of such a great feat. Commentary aside, I want the names and email addresses of the interns, and I hope they are unpaid, who came up with this one. I also want to know the budget for the event and how the funds were appropriated. This is what happens when event planners fall on hard times and have a sympathetic friend who works at the UN.

When I heard that the UN was doing something called “Stand Up Against Poverty”, I was excited as I envisioned them following the lead of the popular and lucrative “Comic Relief” or Red Nose Day fund raisers. I immediately began to think about how I could participate and squeeze off a few one liners to put food on tables. 1010 told me that the event would be held in Times Square and that they would be using the New Year’s Eve falling ball to mark the event. I envisioned top comics from around the globe, but mostly from NYC, interspersing jokes with Bob Geldolf-style pleas for donations while raising millions. Eventually it would become a yearly thing and one day I would host it, of course with the eradication of poverty in mind and not for my own personally grandeur etc.

Then in another ten minutes, still on the blasted Turnpike, I was able to hear the newscast again but this time I listened carefully. There was no stand up in the UN’s stunt, just standing up. The goal was to get as many people into Times Square (and perhaps other traffic clogged city centers) as possible and have them all stand at the same time. UGH! Perhaps they should have waited until New Years Eve when it happens naturally and they could have added another superlative to the crowd- drunkest and claimed that the event was to eradicate sobriety. Aren’t there already a lot of people standing in Times Square because there are not any seats? Whatever.

When I got home I checked the “Stand Up” website. The even was to take place that evening between 6 and 8pm under the falling ball and was to be the "centerpiece of a global day of action in over 100 countries to set a Guinness World Record for the most number of people to Stand Up against poverty in 24 “hours.” What do you mean set a record for standing? Is competitive group standing an official Guinness category and is anyone else vying for this record? Attending the event would be a celeb MC and a Senior US official, both unnamed. With the definition of celebrity being what it is, people who show up might be entertained by Sisqo of thong song fame and probably not Bono, who someone might actually want to see. Who cares about a UN official? I checked further down the page for a contact number of email but all I found was this:

Estimated Number who will Stand Up
0

I am thankful that I am fortunate enough not to have to rely on the UN to solve my problems. So, I guess in on sense their lame campaign may help the poor by alerting people to the problem that something effective needs to be done about the skirmish on the poverty. It reminds me that I need to do some community service, soon.

Weapon of Mass Instruction

2006-10-11T12:25:00.000-04:00

In today's Metro paper you can find my opinion piece titled, PBS:Weapon of Mass Instruction. You know I am going to talk about the GOP. That is all I will say. Go check it out on page 11 (in full color PDF format). You can see an even more touched up version of my DIY headshot below an even bigger picture of John Kerry's head.
The first 30 seconds of my 15 minutes of fame...

The Fugster Cometh

2006-10-04T14:14:00.000-04:00

I have had the misfortune to live in a few neighborhoods during their rapid gentrification which is an ugly process because of the hideous people that come first. The fugly hipster or fugster comes in masquerading as a starving artist but is really little more than a well skilled soap dodger. He is the front line of gentrification, the first defense and repellant sent in to clear the area by raising rents and bringing in stupid stores that carry non-edible non-usable items. These kind of toy stores cater to almost 30 years olds who will buy really anything as long as it is well designed, plastic and makes an ironic comment/homage to the pop culture of a slightly bygone era like the late spring of 1994. But more importantly their emaciated daddy funded proprietors can pay more upfront than a convenience store owner. The frequency of their business failures means that the landlord can keep raising the rent with each new tenant, woohoo. The fugster prefers used clothing but only if it is overpriced. After scoring the same sweater that he refused to wear in the 7th grade, which is now too tight in a hip way, he can go an eat pad thai a different Chinese converted to Thai place every night without leaving his block. He can’t leave the block anyway because his clothing and hair say “Please mock me”. Afterward when the temperature cools he will don a pair of high waters that he bought a store whose one word name is written in lower case and head over to a former neighborhood bar to hear essentially a Weezer cover band- although both the band and the audience will think that they are original. While digging the tunes he will suck back what he thinks a redneck might drink out of a can.
After a few more years on his parent dime, 1000 of which paid for an abortion and consolation tattoo and piercing, the fugster, sick of how commercial it has become and unable to afford his annually rising rent will begin bringing down local wages or outright destroying paying jobs through an internship. He will become anxious that there are too many other fugsters in his nabe- most younger than him and who are just poseurs from the Midwest- and lament over a soy chai latte “this used to be a cool –fill in the ethnic group of color or of eastern European heritage- and what is corporate star#ucks doing here?”
The appearance of chain stores and his parents’ choice to put their money behind his sister Amy, now on her third degree in navel gazing studies of people just like her, will propel him to steal an entry level job from a local college grad who needs it. On his first day he will find that not only do none of the women want to sleep with him but that no one appreciated the Beck stylings of his “vintage suit” with vents and coordinating rockabilly shirts with snaps instead of buttons. Eventually he will move either a bridge or tunnel away and wonder what happened to his rock and roll life style and dream of making that indy film. By this time the yuppies will have arrived in his old stomping grounds sweeping away the railroad apartments with lofts, and brushing aside the Thai places with high end fusion Japanese forcing the remaining fugsters to move to (gasp!) black neighborhoods uptown.

I Want Condi

2006-09-27T11:04:00.000-04:00

I usually indulge in trash TV at the gym so when 60 minutes came on I didn't bother to change the channel on the treadmill's screen. With the exception of the BBC, I avoid televised news. I prefer to read the news rather than have vapid talking heads interpret and act it out for me. I am one of those old fashioned people the media hates- a reader. On the program Katie Couric was interviewing Condoleeza Rice which must mean that she too is deep in the Bush fold. I had never heard of Ms. Couric before her much publicized transfer from one station to another and I was unimpressed by her skills and her trade mark birth defect smile. She seemed as if she had never interviewed anyone before et alone pronounced a polysyllabic word. Did she down a handful of uppers before going on? Her eyes were the size of saucers, but that could be Botox. I have never been interested in Condi- as they refer to her in an attempt to soften her image- but I figured let's hear what that shrewd domestic expletive has carefully scripted for middle America.

Boy was I lucky! I learned quite a bit. Apparently she graduated from college in her late teens, which just goes to show that even the most educated of persons can delude themselves into serving Mr. Charlie. I also learned that in addition to shoveling Bush's crap she also enjoys playing classical music and likes to work out on a stair master while listening to Cream and Led Zeppelin. What a surprise- a treadmill, classic rock and classical music. I pictured her fronting an jazz trio and listening to some Anita Baker after taking a Haitian dance class. Intimate details as such really make her creepy exterior seem more personable, and we all know how important it is to like unelected officials. Jokes aside, the second most frightening part of the interview was the delve into her social life. Condi, the gal who has got it all, can't find a man and yet could not bear to say that she clearly was not looking for one. I guess the passion in compassionate conservatism only goes so far. I am sure one day she will find a Newt Gingrinch of her own but his ideas on miscegenation might put a damper on the relations. I wish I could say more mean and nasty things about her but I have nothing to go on as every word that fell from her wax lips seemed well rehearsed and every move was mechanical. Besides Eugene Robinson says it much better.

Like many left leaning Black women, I resent that she has reached the position that she is in because she seems both a token and an insult to everything that has been worked for. I wish that I could see her as a role model for young Black women, young women of any race or even young people but I can not.
As an African American I had never before seen us as oppressors and I don't think the world had seen us that way either. Condi has changed all that forever. Oh wait, I forgot about Clarence Thomas… and Colin Powell

Discriminating Discrimination

2006-09-26T00:14:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend my fiance and I went shopping for a new health club. I have been a member at a certain health club since I moved here in 2002 and have seen the cost of my monthly membership rise as steadily as the quality of the health club's facilities have declined. I have tried different locations, but there always seems to be a problem at each one. One had to many steroid addled muscle bound freaks, another had a steam room that doubled as a fly hatchery and yet another featured a cardio area that smelled distinctly like feet. There was no final straw, just a steady stream of annoyance. When I got back from the Borgata, (it is like Vegas!) after having had a great gym experience, I could not take it any more. I called up two gyms and made appointments for my us to check them out.
The second gym we visited, let's call it Solstice, was less stellar than the first which we shall call New York Well Being and Squash Club. The UES location was convenient but neither the price nor the clientele were down to earth enough for me and I am by no means an egalitarian. I do not take kindly to being sniffed at in the locker room or peered at while I doing pilates stretches. I half expected someone to ask me, in Spanish, to get them a towel.

After a our workout we emerged onto Broadway and headed towards our car parked five blocks away. On the walk I thought about how nice it would be to move closer to the city and decided to ask G about his thoughts on moving.
"Would you consider living uptown"
"Sure, why not?"
"What do you think about the Upper East Side?"
"It's fine"
"Well what about the Upper West Side?"
"Upper West Side, Upper East Side its all the same to me. Do you have a preference?"
I thought about it for a moment and then answered," Well ,I guess we'd have to decide who we would rather have look down on us; Jews or Wasps."

War and Piece

2006-09-20T10:32:00.000-04:00

A good friend of mine can spot faux hair at fifty paces. In fact whenever we are out in public she seizes upon every opportunity to size up pieces that do not meet her high standards. So I have decided to help her go pro with her apparent talents. So far I have only come up with the ad for her enterprise as for funding, well that is still in question.

C Brooks PI (Piece Investigator) a full service agency

"We take piece personally"

Weaves Detected!

Tracks Tracked!

"Secret Hair" Exposed!

Falls Felled!

Bad Braids Upbraided!

Pony Tails Tailed!

Nappy Wigs Snatched!

Rugs Uncovered!

Toupees Topped Off!

Hair in a Can Canned!

Don't let that so and so get away with it. For an extra charge the offending hair dresser will be sought out an brought to justice. Bad hair is everyone's problem.

Till Debt do Us Part

2006-09-18T08:14:00.000-04:00

Last month my partner (I can say partner, I came of age in the 90s) became my fiancé through a Las Vegas proposal. At sunset, 50 plus stories above the strip and the ring came on a very architectural piece of chocolate in a dessert that I had not ordered and tried to refuse. The day had been perfect-morning at a day spa with couples massage followed by a late lunch with 3-4-1 happy hour. During lunch we made frantic calls around town trying to locate a venue with a view for dinner and got reservatons at the Rio’s Voodoo lounge. I suspected nothing. Dinner was delicious and filling and the last thing I wanted to see was our waiter heading towards us with champagne and flan. “It’s on the house.” Well, in that case. And bam, I was betrothed. On the flight back to New York, the joy of the engagement quickly morphed into the hell of wedding planning.

New York (by which I mean the unholy metro area triangle with Connecticut, Long Island and Bergen County at the vertices) has got to be the worse place to plan a wedding if you make less than Trump in a good year. An ordinary bunch of flowers, wrapped by a SVA graduate with a simple ribbon starts at $100. It is cheaper to import flowers from California and hire a day laborer to arrange them then to get wedding flowers locally. Maybe I will institute the first ever BYOCL (Bring Your Own Calla Lily) wedding policy.

I hesitate to begin on the subject of venues. The so-called budget venues range from $4000 and provide you with the venue only; read at least three walls, a roof and a door. If you want to sit down on chairs and eat on plates at a table covered with linens you must arrange it through the mob. Also, due to the nature of budget locations, one must arrange for one’s own security lest the evening become a wedding cum murder mystery.

Like many unsuspecting brides I gave my email to the big ones- Knot.com, Bloomies, Modern Bride etc- and as a result have opened my inbox to the entire bridal industry. The matrimonial industrial complex is much like the funeral industry. Both lobbies have found ways to seize upon an already momentous and meaningful event and added expensive whistles and bells to turn a profit. All a wedding or a funeral requires is the right amount of bodies, onlookers and some kind of officiant. The absence of flowers, printed invitations and announcements, music, catering, special outfits, gussied up venues will not stop the dead from being remembered nor the engaged from getting married.

So far, according to the wedding industry, I need to have invitations with more components then a menu at a real Greek diner plus tissue paper and protective envelopes. First I have to get out “Save the dates” followed by tripartite formal invitations with RSVP cards, place cards and ante - place cards to guide guests to their real place card, menu cards and programs, maps for out of town guests, keepsake cards (what?), thank you notes and little pieces of paper for guests to write their wedding wishes on… I don’t have the time for this so I am just going to go to the Pacific northwest and do some clear cutting instead. The result is the same and we save on printing and postage.

Officiants cost money as well which is funny because all the real work will be done at the clerks office in the Bronx for a $50 filing fee. For the money I would rather hire a Shatner impersonator or an auctioneer or a boxing announcer to spruce up the ceremony. Screw the ceremony hall, we can stand under a tree in the park and try to finish the ceremony before we get pinched for not having a permit. I was told by I should hire stretch limos if not double decker tour buses to transport my guest around town but if they had no trouble getting to the ceremony by public transport I don’t see why they can’t hail a cab afterward. This is New York, I presume cabs will be around.

The suggested menus I have seen are out of control. Look, if you want ice sculptures, chocolate fountains and carving stations go on a carnival cruise. Alternatively I you expect haute cuisine, take you girlfriend to Bouley don’t wait for my wedding to come up. By the time the food is served I am expecting my guests to be hungry, tired and tipsy. Complicated food is hard to see and even harder to navigate and who doesn’t like Chinese. And as far as entertainment is concerned aside from drunk guests- always entertaining- there will be a well stocked MP3 player. I doubt that there is a band out there who could or would play Dean Martin and Outkast back to back for free. There is one thing that I will spend money on however; my wedding dress. I have done my research and at my size I should have little trouble flogging the frock on ebay after I get back from my honey moon.

Don’t get me wrong I am not downplaying the importance of a wedding. Sure, if I had the money to blow 35K on a single event I would not hesitate pay off my student loans. But the insistence that a china pattern, a special font and a cash injection can make my day unique is crass. What will make my wedding unique is me.

Coming to America

2006-08-30T19:49:00.000-04:00

Last night I did comedy/variety show in Staten Island with some really wacked out guys I met in an improv class. This 3 man troupe concocts short films, animation and stand up for their monthly show at a venue called "The Cup" which is, as you can tell by the name, a very raunchy strip club and classics bookstore. Their product is consistently hilarious. Ceci n'est pas un plug. I can't believe they got me to come out there. The trip from Riverdale to SI is a little bit longer than a flight to Washington DC including the maddening journey to JFK (including a trip on my nemesis the Air Train). Which reminds me of the time I got back from my first trip to Cairo.

I had had a marvelous vacation in Egypt. I fulfilled one of my life goals of riding a wild steed around the pyramids at a breakneck pace without any safety equipment and a saddle so thin it felt like riding bareback. During my time abroad, the twin genius powers of the MTA and whoever runs JFK decided to open the Air Scam terminal, which connects the sad outdated airplane terminals to the subway, and cancel the free buses running from the terminals to the subway. They did this despite the fact that the train was not working. In the freezing cold rain irate groups of recent arrivals were forced find a way to the subway on foot.
Clueless, my small diverse group set off in the dark through the parking lot. A young European woman became our leader when she convinced us that it would be safest if we took a route that followed the overhead Air Shame track. During our trip we were picked up twice by parking shuttles who could only take us from one lot to the next but would not deliver potential hypothermia victims to the A train no matter how much the Spanish (from actual Spain) couple argued with them in Spanish. After an hour of cursing in English, Arabic, and versions of various European and Asian languages and dragging each others luggage we arrived at the subway entrance but not get in. The devils had fixed it so that the only way to exit or enter the subway was through the sky train terminal. Direct access to the subway had been eliminated for a tidy profit. We went inside confident that they would not try to charge us after we had braved the sleet and wind in a half mile trek. But just to remind us that our city is the greatest city on the planet, we were forced to pay five dollars on the threat of arrest in order to access the A train. A few people appealed to the woman in the booth and she advised us to write a letter of complaint. This remark was met with such derision that she refused to speak to us further and threatened to call security.

“Why should I pay five dollars to get into Brooklyn?” one man asked. Good question. Why should anyone? Isn’t enough that you just had to deal with the mess that is JFK?

In contrast to the train system, that foul branch of the MTA, is the Staten Island ferry. It is clean, on time and free. You can even have a beer while you watch the city grow or shrink in the distance. On the way back it was overcast, the lights of the financial district reflected off the low lying clouds and lit up the sky in a very Woody Allen movie way. I was surprised to discover that I was on the verge of having an emotional response to a view! I had treated myself to a beer I did not even enjoy, just because I like the idea of drinking on public transportation, so it could have been the Miller Light. Which sort of reminds me of the semester I spent in London, when I thought it was clever to drink on the tube- because it was not illegal. Of course, then it was not a beer and a vision of the island of Manhattan, it was a tallboy of super lager and the sight of some rather rough looking Manchester United fans.