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Angels and Inner Demons

In preparation for the opening weekend of Angels and Demons, I got caught up on my Dan Brown canon and watched The Da Vinci Code.

What’s great about this film is not Tom Hank’s proverbial portrayal of a nice guy caught up in extraordinary circumstances. Nor is it Ron Howard’s sensitive and dramatic direction. Nor is it the compelling story that allows for intelligent questioning of age old institutions that often go unquestioned.

What moves me the most is a scene about 8 minutes into the movie. The albino Silas zips up his leg in a terrifying razor belt, slicing open his skin. Then, bows before a crucifix, and whips the mess out of his back, bringing up welts, tears and penitence.

An appreciation of self-punishment is vital to the Oreo experience. Pain is a perfect reminder that you are not quite good enough. And if you can bring that pain on yourself, so much the better!

So once a month, I schedule a little masochism called a relaxer touch up to keep myself in check.

No natural hair for me! No dreds or even heat processing. Instead, I spend two hours and nearly $200 to have caustic white goo poured on my scalp to force my naturally kinky hair into beautiful, luxurious submission.

If you’ve not had the pleasure of experiencing a relaxer, let me walk you through it. The stylist spreads a thick white salve on your head that smells of sulfur. For the first few seconds, the naturally cool ointment feels almost calming. Then, it does its work and your head feels like it ate 4400 habanero peppers while being digested by the acid of 2300 angry angry stomachs.

First degree burns are not uncommon. And not unnecessary. Because in the end, my hair is as straight and as silky as any shampoo model’s. Fingers ready world! Run them through it. After all, I did this for you.

As my skull is still tingling from my latest salon adventure, I thought I would pay homage to some other self-punishers. Here’s to those of us unafraid to let the demons out…or rather to keep them in where they can do the important work that personal demons are meant to do.

A tip of the hat goes to:

1701164207_933ca62bafThe Classic: Vincent Van Gogh.

His human crime: Falling in love.

The punishment: One ear removal, sans sedatives.

The Creepy: Cathie Jung.

Her human crime: Having organs in the right place.

The punishment: Forcing intestines, lungs and other vitals into a 15-inch flesh tube. Yep, this lady took the brave step of corseting her once normal waist into something that Tim Burton will use to mocap his next movie.


The Contemporary: Daniel Witwicky

His human crime: I’m not sure what poor Danny Boy did wrong, but whatever it was, the punishment seems to be having to endure all of his bones breaking into bits as his gift of a robot carcass must transform into a very non-human-shaped car every time the Autobots decide to roll out. (sorry for the long video, you can see his self-sacrifice at 3:12)

Now that’s committment. Puts my relaxer to shame. Anyone know where I can get an exosuit?

Self Loathing in Space…It’s logical, Captain.

Science fiction often involves the colonization of new places and the enslavement or eradication of the alien species found there. Thus, a fairly Anglo-Saxon genre. And consequently, a genre any good Oreo should learn to enjoy.

So I went to see Star Trek this weekend and was pleasantly surprised to find a fellow Oreo welcoming me to the fold.

Officer Uhura (NOTE: Mild spoilers ahead)

While the actress playing Uhura, Zoe Saldana, is mixed race and therefore ineligible for Oreo status, Uhura herself clearly is.

Three indicators make her penchant for non-ethnicity delightfully obvious.

  1. Physical profile. Urhura’s rail thin body as depicted in the film happily erases any hint of ethnic curvature.
  2. Her mother tongue. Uhura is clearly in the top first or second percentile of her class and speaks many languages and dialects. Not included in her language list: jive, ebonics or urban.
  3. Identity safe sex. According to the latest film, Uhura is romantically involved with Commander Spock. While there were no other cadets of color on board the enterprise, there were a host of cadets of color at the academy. Uhura could have unwisely chosen one of these young men to bed with. However, she rightly chose interracial, nay interspecies love, just like a good Oreo should.
  4. Bonus points for chosing a near Vulcan version of an Oreo (Voreo? Vuloreo?). Spock is half human, half Vulcan and his decision to have emotional relations anyone betrays his Vulcan (minority) side.

Whitewashing knows no planetary bounds. And thank the cosmos for that.

A Super Rat All Along

AUDREY_HEPBURN23I was invited this weekend to an Breakfast at Tiffany’s themed party. We were to wear our little black dresses and pearls and be quite fabulous about the whole thing.

I worried for one naive moment that I would not be the only person of color in attendance. And as you know from the Are You Safe chart, being one of two black folks in a room can be deadly for the Oreo.

But I arrived and saw that the room was as white as the pearls we were wearing. I knew I had done well.

Until…..

Mickey Rooney made his trademark and incredilby offensive appearance on screen. The meaning of the quickly stifled laughter from the other guests was clear. It was the “I-normally-laugh-at-this-but-there-is-a-minority-in-the-room-so-I-probably-shouldn’t” laugh.

Had I been playing my Oreo card correctly, the laughs would have flown as freely as the liquor at the Derby.

I let my people down. I can only hope I can make up for it by hosting my own Song of the South party.

Who doesn’t love Disney?

Feliz Fiestas!

Had to put down my Corona, piñata y Rite Aid purchased sombrero to get this one in on time. Didn’t want to Cinco de Mayo to go by without an homage to an institution that helps keep self-loathing in the hearts of my Latino/a hermanas and hermanos. Why should black folks be the only people who get to celebrate the subtle erasing over of the truth of their ethnic history? It’s an acculturation all-skate!

So, the public school system and a host of beer commercials lead us to believe that Cinco de Mayo is a day to be celebrated because a small band of underdog Mexican fighters defeated the much more powerful French forces.

While it is true that this did happen on 5/05/1862, by 5/05/1863, the French recouped and captured those fighters in an effigy that caused the Mexican forces to think twice before standing up to white folks again.

The less marketed Dieciseis de Septiembre is the actual day we should be celebrating. Because this is the day that Mexicans actually began the fight that would win them their freedom from their European oppressors. But “dieciseis” is harder to say, thus less marketable and would allow a people of color to truly celebrate a victory of substance.

And that’s just silly.

I will admit. Part of me feels guilty for knowing this information, much less disseminating it. It goes against the very principals of the autophobic Oreo way of life. But as long as I don’t have to talk about the upset inherent in Juneteenth, the next round of Dos Equis is on me!

Ole!

(because botched border crossings are hilarious for children to see)

Int./Ext. OreoWriter’s Car – Day

WhitePal adjust the volume on the car stereo as OreoWriter sits in the passenger seat.

OW: Such a busy weekend. Sorry I couldn’t make it to your sister’s. How was it?

WP: Good time. Check out this playlist I made for her jumpoff.

OW: Jump–oh, that’s right, you said she was finally going to go skydiving. How’d she like it?

WP: (beat) About as much as you like context clues.

Love in the…”Clurb”…seriously, is he saying “clurb”

I was on my way to my knitting circle when I happened past a small theater. As a patron of the arts, I feel it is my duty to support the houses that remind us of the good that great men like Shakespeare, Chekhov and Pinter contributed to the theatrical canon.

Imagine my shock and horror then when I looked in saw a troupe of women being taught moves called “Brush Yo’ Shoulder Off,” “Smack da Butt” and “Pump it.”

As a proud Oreo, I would never embarrass myself with a dance invented after, say, 1800. Sorry, Lindy Hop. And no, it’s not just because I have the kinesthetic intelligence of a puppy on waxed linoleum…it’s because I have an intense appreciation for the beauty, grace and social safeguards inherent in a well-performed waltz.

When using proper classic dance form, there are rules and standards. No room for dangerous personal expression that one would inflict upon another after doing a pop or a lock near someone else. 2131759429_f58456a8d6

It’s just too short of a trip from a ghetto bounce step to a denim jacket embroidered with Looney Tunes characters to courting your love with phrases like: “It’s goin’ down on aisle 3, I’ll bag you like some groceries…I know you scared baby, they don’t know what we doin’…Let’s both get undressed right here, keep it up girl, then I swear, I’mma give to you non-stop, and I don’t care who’s watchin’.”

Mmmm, nothing like slant rhymes and vague threats of sexual assault in a public place to get a woman all melty.

Now, if you’re going to woo with music and poetry, I say, take a page from the brilliant wordsmiths on the other side of the pond. Like this:
“Cock and Hen on a Friday night,
Would you Adam and Eve the height of the white.
A Leo Sayer during the day,
Or to your Uncle Ted to delay the sway.
The Gay and Hearty is Harry Kewell,
Bob Hope, Rum and Coke rule till people drool.
Sausage and Mash run out, Jack and Jills turn straight,
Your Loaf just hurts and you’re Two and Eight. “

Doesn’t that sound better? You wanna talk about melty. Mmmm, Cockney slang. Traveled. Sophisticated. Delicious.

Diary of a Mad White Black Woman

Dear Diary,

A confession today.

I used my apparent ethnicity last night to my favor with a non Oreo. For so many reasons, I could tell just by looking at him that all I had to do was bat my baby browns at him and I could get away with murder.

He was the bouncer at a local performance establishment I decided to visit yesterevening. When he came to me in line, checking for wristbands, he asked me what I did on Monday nights. I said it depended on the Monday night.

He invited me to a night of comedy featuring nothing but “our” comics. All black comedians. All night. He was, as he put it, “all about it.”

Poor boy. Let him take a look at my iTunes, see videos of Maria Bamford and then maybe he would re-evaluate who exactly “our” comics were.

He gave me his card, showed me where to find his personal cell number among the other promoters’ numbers and moved down the line.

A few minutes later, the line was being let in and the rope was pulled just three people before me. Fear set in like fog in London.

The bouncer walked by, “Looking forward to Monday,” I said, smiling. “I mean, are we really the only two of us here tonight?”

“Come on in,” he said.

It’s true. I frown upon flirting with members of my assumed race. Makes it harder to convince the powers that be of who I really am and that I deserve the privileges images-11inherent in my membership to their club.

But lines are long, it was chilly and A Prairie Home Companion is wonderful live. I didn’t want to miss a minute.

Preach on Garrison Keillor. Preach on.